


A song of lesser evils

by vtedy1



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21658003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtedy1/pseuds/vtedy1
Summary: The season unending had just begun.The battle of Solitude was no end.The Thalmor gather their forces, the dragons roar in the skies, vampires attack people int the streets.But what is a lone Dragonborn to do, now that he has blood on his hands he could never forget.I don't own Skyrim
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

Ulfric slowly ascended the stairs to his room. Ever since he allowed the Dragonborn in his army he never knew if he was going to receive a visit or not. The worse part was that the Breton loved to sing that damn song. Even now, as the fires of war were finally put out. Even after he pledged his allegiance to the Stormcloacks. Always reminding him how it all started.

_We drink to our_ _youth, for days come and gone_

_For the Age of Aggression is just about done_

_We'll drive out the Stormcloaks and restore what we own_

_With our blood and our_ _steel, we will take back our home_

So tonight was no different. Snow-Hammer had come to berate him about his lack of action against the people of Solitude. _You were not firm enough_ he’ll start. _You should have made Galmer Jarl of Solitude and done away with Elisif_ he’ll continue. Always the same arguments. Starting always with the same damn song.

_Down with Ulfric, the killer of kings_

_On the day of your death, we will drink and we'll sing_

_We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives_

_And when Sovngarde beckons every one of us dies_

_But this land is ours and we'll see it wiped clean_

_Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams_

The Jarl kept ascending. He did this to himself. The Breton's hatred of the Empire ran deep. Just last week he had been charged with killing a Penitus Oculatos. The Dragonborn hadn’t even tried to protest. Just paid the fine and kept wandering. Like Ulfric had told him to on the day they took Solitude.

There were days where he wondered if the only imperial Snow-Hammer had any respect for was not the late general Tullius. He had refused to finish him, had listened to what his enemy had to say. Had believed in it, even. When was the last time Ulfric could say the same about himself? Not since the battle of Solitude, perhaps not even then.

_Down with Ulfric, the killer of kings_

_On the day of your death, we will drink and we'll sing_

_We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives_

_And when Sovngarde beckons every one of us dies_

The Dragonborn was a blade with no hilt, sharp and ready to make even his wielder bleed. Ulfric only wished that the Breton would choose some other time to visit him than the dead of night. The High King passed a guard with clenched fists. None of his Stormcloacks wanted to hear Snow-Hammer sing this song. Maybe some even hated him for it.

But what could any of them do? After the massacre in Whiterun, he had only sent the mad bard to take Forts. And even then with a few of his troops as possible. Most of them didn’t come back, burned to ashes by a hurled fireball. He couldn’t afford to delay the war any longer, nor could he afford enough Grand soul gems to outfit his army, as the Dragonborn had outfitted his best friend, Eric, and make them resistant to fire.

_We drink to our youth, for the days come and gone_

_For the Age of Aggression is just about done_

Ulfric opened the door. The menace was sitting on the foot of his bed again. Reminding him that he was invited once when his loyalties were yet fresh. There had been only one way to make sure the one-man army won’t run off and do something else as the rumors about him would lead one to believe. His good looks and the fact that the other man wasn’t mad back then had helped the endeavor along and now here they were, hating each other when there used to be something else in the place of this hatred.

This time the Dragonborn was smiling slightly and didn’t look like he was in one of his rages. No, the song was just to bruise Ulfric’s ego. Maybe to humble him. Not even the bards of Solitude dared to sing this song no more and yet here his third in command was, doing just that. The mage stared at him for a while and then he scooted over, making him some space before he started talking.

“I think you should marry Elisif”

“Why would I?”Ulfric said softly.

“Your claims together could mean that no rebellion will happen again for quite some time. And she is too weak to stab you in the back should your marriage becomes too much to bear”

Ulfric sat down on the bed next to his, whatever the man next to him was, and thought it over. A marriage like that could secure food imports and a renewal of the trade through Solitude and Windhelm. Maybe even hasten the recognition of a free Skyrim. But Lysander had too much pride to be a third wheel. If he was proposing something like that then he wanted to leave. Never to return and then what of the Dragons roaring in the skies?

“Where do you wish to go?”

Lysander looked thoughtful for a moment then said:

“Oblivion, Hircine wishes I join him in his hunts. I rather like the green open fields of his plane.”

Ulfric looked down and saw the cursed ring on his soldier's hand, right where a wedding ring should be. It would be so easy to just let the Breton go. Never to fear him turning against him as he had turned against the Empire. But then, what of the dragons?

“The Dragons…” he began only to be interrupted.

“No one is as accursed as the kinslayer. They are my brothers, Ulfric. I have been killing my family all this time. The only one I have.”

So the rumors of Alduin speaking with Lysander had not been just rumors. Ever since Whiterun the Breton had refrained from killing dragons if there was no bounty on them. As a result, most of the overgrown lizards kept to their speaking walls and had even been helping Lysander in finding more of them. They merely waited for their “brother” to go somewhere else for them to start attacking again. And all the while Alduin the Worldeater was gorging himself on the souls of the sons and daughters of Skyrim!

“It’s not kinslaying, Ice Veins. You should stop referring to it as such. Akatosh has sent you here to stop his creations. And you can’t just go to a Daedric Prince and leave Skyrim behind. And no, I am not marrying Elesif !”

Ulfric knew he made his bed long ago.

“You will remain here and fight the dragons and you will return to my side to sing me to sleep every time!”

There was no point in regretting it now.

“In exchange, I swear on my honor as a Nord and High King that you will never need to share me with anyone!”

Skyrim needed him to sacrifice something of himself to save it from Alduin.

“And if you truly doubt me and my conduct then tell me now, because I will drag you kicking and screaming in front of Mara’s alter like I know you want me to!”

Because at the end of the day Lysander wanted only one thing, the same thing that was taken away from him all those years ago that thought him how to hate the Empire.

“We will also adopt the little flower selling girl you always pay to in gold ore, the one near the gates, she can live here with us.”

A Family.

The Breton removed the ring of Hircine from his hand and put it on the table next to the bed.

“You will let me talk to my oldest brother. I will not run back and forth exchanging axes when I could exchange words. My brothers would help us against the Thalmor if we only ask it of them correctly. You will leave it to me. I don’t want any Stormcloacks near their roosts if they haven’t struck first.”

“Alright”

The jarl took his fiance in his arms, (30 years his junior, by the nine, what had he done?), and drifted away.


	2. A Song of chains

The very next morning the Dragonborn was gone from Windhelm. A note saying he was going to Riften to arrange everything the only thing left behind. Ulfric buried his face in the piwolls after reading it and groned. He did not wish to marry. He did not wish to invite the bloody Worldeater to his wedding. He did not want to be chained to someone who would risk their life without thinking.

It seemed, though, he had no say in the matter. He rose and went to do his duties. Maybe it won’t be so bad, after all. He could try to talk the Dragonborn into using more spells than just the _Fireball_. Talk him out of _Death Finger_ , a restoration spell which transferred the caster’s very life essence into deadly poison for both its victim and user. There were many things he had to do to keep his fiance in check as to not end as a pile of ashes by accident.

Lysander had forgotten to take Eric with him. The young lad looked uncomfortable sitting at the high table. Not even daring to look his way. Ulfric supposed the boy looked like a younger version of himself. They were both blonde, blue-eyed and Nords. Decked in full dragonbone armor the Nord looked more like a Dragonborn than the real one in his light noble’s gambeson did.

Had the Dragonborn ever looked at this young man with anything else than the brotherly fondness he had for him now? Had he played him Khajiti melodies, as he did for Ulfric? Had he ever spend hours talking about his homeland? Lysander was not one to stay in one place. After the marriage, he would surely ask him to join him on his adventures. Will he have the heart to send the blonde boy before him away, with enough coin to last him to Hammerfell, granting Eric the Slayer’s own wish?

More than likely not. He would be dragged across all of Skyrim, maybe even beyond it. And not that but the Worldeater had the gal to roast on top of his palace. Saying that his future “Frin-Zaymah” should be glad he was not hurling fireballs at him for being inferior to his youngest and dearest “Zaymah”. Latter his court wizard had told him these words meant brother-in-law and brother respectively. That did not serve to uplift his mood.

So here he was, waiting for the wedding preparations to be complete, with his people scared that the literal bringer of the end times was going to kill them all, much to the amusement of said menace, and a fidgeting overprotective younger version of himself that he felt he was merely a replacement for. He sat on his throne for the entire day, snapping at all the people who came to complain about Alduin” Make me move and Lys will be searching for a new “Ahmul”(husband)” Worldeater.

It was in the dead of night that Lysander finally came back. Smiling from ear to ear, with an amulet of Mara around his neck. For the sake of custom, and the eavesdropping dragon on his roof, he began the way all engagements did in Skyrim.

“An amulet of Mara, I am surprised someone like you isn’t spoken for already.”

“Interested in me, are you?”

“Yes, I am. You arranged everything then?”

“That I did, I merely need to speak with the priest one last time.” Said Lysander, then came closer and presented him with two battle axes and a bow made out of dragon bone and ebony. Ulfric could feel the magic pouring out of them. Next, the Breton handed him a bracelet, a ring and a medallion which felt hot to the touch.

“I figured you could use some better weapons. Nothing against Skyforge steal, but dragonbone is the best material there is. If you let me I will also enchant your armor for you. With anti-magic or fire resistance. Would you like that, Ulfric?”

Ulfric frowned slightly.

“What happened to _the dragons are my brothers, I don’t want to shed their blood_? Should I expect your vows to me to be valid only while you think fondly of me? Or should I ask for fire resistance on everything I wear in preparation for the day I am not in your graces?”

Stepping back Lysander’s smile fell.

“The bones I used are from dragons that attacked me first. They are rebels. Alduin told all my brothers to not engage in unnecessary slaughter and these dragons did just that. I didn’t want to kill them, but it was either me or them. Alduin told me he also had to put some of the rebels down so…”

“And if Alduin tells you the skies are purple and men are inferior, would you believe your “brother” Lysander?” Yelled Ulfric, anger boiling to the surface.

“Should Alduin tell you to start doing what you love most more, hurling fireballs on us mere mortals, would you do it?”

Shoulders slummed Lysander clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Didn’t I do just that because you asked it of me during the war? Didn’t I kill, lie, cheat and steal for you? What makes the two of you so different? Brother and Lover both view me as a weapon of some sort, is that what you want to say to me? Should I go tell the priest not to bother with finishing the preparations?”

Ulfric let out a sigh. This was going to be harder than he thought. As far as the Breton before him was concerned Alduin was his family. An older brother who thought him the language of the Dovas in his spare time and who would occasionally tell him where he could learn new shouts. And there was the danger. For if Alduin was as benevolent as he claimed he would have gone ahead of Lysander and cleared the places of any danger, the immortal and undefeatable firstborn son of Akatosh that he was.

Instead, the Breton would come back with a cut or an arm in braces ready to tell him of all the dangers he faced while learning yet another party trick he would surely forget to use! Why, if it wasn’t for Eric the Slayer Alduin might have gotten rid of Lysander by now!

Was his fiance so starved for any kind of connection he would willingly remain blind to the machinations of the cunning dragon? So starved he had known what he was doing during the war but hadn’t cared because Ulfric had spoken in poetry to him back then?

“Forget what I said. Go and finish preparations. I will be there and I will be happy.”

That had been enough for the Dragonborn to start smiling again. After a quick embrace, the bard was out of Ulfric’s room and the Jarl could later hear he had spooked a serving maid by shouting right next to her in his haste to reach Riften in time.

Outside Alduin was still perched on top of his palace. His good brother act not enough to offer to fly Lysander to Riften instead of letting him brave the blizzard that raged outside in an open carriage. If he could blame Alduin for it then he could also blame himself. He had sent his spouse to be out in this weather. This time Eric was not at his table. That was good, someone had to watch the Dragonborn's back, even if it was only for money and the thirst for adventure.

Later, after all was said and done. After he had said “I do” and accepted his chain while Lysander did the same much happier than him. He learned that the Breton had to fight not one but three of these so-called rebel dragons the day before. One of them was even an Ancient one. As Alduin let out puffs of smoke from his nose drills to entertain his “Zaymah” Ulfric wondered if there could be anything or anyone who he hated more at this moment. 

The High King swore that he would not rest until an accident happened and the smug overgrown boot got his soul eaten by his Lysander. With how fireball happy both dragon and human were it was a matter of time. Now that the Jarl thought about it maybe they were truly brothers after all, with how similar they acted.


	3. A song of compromises

After the wedding night, Ulfric awoke with the Dragonborn still in his arms, quietly staring up at him.

“What say you, Dragonborn” The Jarl spoke gently and went to move a lose curl away from the Dragonborn’s eyes. Lysander moved closer in their embrace.

“I’ve been thinking that you should come with me on my journies.” Before Ulfric had a chance to protest a finger was pressed to his lips, shushing him.

“The war is over now, but many people still have allegiance to the Empire. Worse yet, many people don’t even know how you look. How do you expect to rule over them all if they know you only by your name and as a kingslayer, love?”

Ulfric furrowed his brow. That was a good question. He grabbed his husband’s hand and gently held it.

“It matters not what they think. My army is stationed in all of the holds. The war is over, Lysander.”

The Breton hmed and went to remove his hand from the other’s grasp only for Ulfric to refuse to let go. Instead, he was pulled further into his new husband’s arms until said man could whisper in the Dragonborn’s ear.

“To claim otherwise is equal to treachery, darling. But we both know you will never do something like that, don’t we?”

Instead of the Dragonborn being slightly cawed the young man laughed instead and pressed his lips to Ulfric’s ear.

“You’re cute when you try to play power games with me. That being said if I wanted to betray you, I wouldn’t have joined you in the first place.”

The Dragonborn kissed the ear he had been whispering in just seconds ago and made to put some distance between his husband and himself, this time successfully.

“Besides, what will you do here by yourself all day? Your enemy all but fled the country. But few camps are remaining and I fully intend to find and destroy them all. Wouldn’t it be fun for you to join me?”

Ulfric’s frown deepened even further. A power game, Lysander said. He enjoyed such things. But above everything, the Breton was a hoarder. He would collect anything shiny that caught his fancy, stick it into a chest and then never look at it again. The Nord had expected that he would be treated the same. Maybe even acquiring a brand new set of horns if the rumors about the Dragonborn and the former Jarl of Falkreath were true. For it to not be so was a surprise. Or maybe the bard wanted to make him attached before he was truly an item of the collection. The damn dragon hoard of trinkets and forgotten friends he had amassed in Markarth.

Sensing his displeasure Lysander’s smile fell. He tried to touch Ulfric’s cheek only for the Nord to move slightly back.

“Do you still think little of me? Tell me truthfully Ulfric, did you marry me to make sure no one would use your Stormblade against you?”

“No, I married you because I care for you.”

The reply came too quickly, it sounded too rehearsed. Lysander had heard such proclamations uttered in the same manner before. He closed his eyes and exhaled. If Ulfric wanted to play the martyr he would let him. He had soaked up the lies of his “oldest brother” to reign him in. Now karma dictated he was treated the very same way. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t bothered to learn the art of Speechcraft. At least then the lies wouldn’t hurt so much.

“If you are worried about someone attacking Windhelm while you are gone, don’t be. Alduin pledge to protect it for as long as you allow him to roast on top of the palace. And I don’t think he would move from his perch in the next month or two.”

Ulfric moved closer until their noses were touching and spoke.

“You wanted me to be truthful now it is my turn to ask it of you. Why do you want me to wander Skyrim with you when it now needs a proper government more than ever. Or do you think your “older” brother can help me with this as well?”

“You can leave the governing to your advisors. You are not King yet, Ulfric!” snaped Lysander. “Yes I can deal with most of what this land has to throw at me, but where does that leave you? Sitting on the throne all day, no different than the other Jarls. No different than the rotten sack of Falmer dung that calls himself Emperor! Should I expect that you negotiate with the Thalmor next, lokaal(love)?”

Angry at the accusations Ulfric made to stand up and get dressed only for the Dragonborn to grab his arm. Lysander couldn’t pull him back to bed, that much was certain. He should have given him the name Stormspell for the Breton didn’t know how to even use a dagger, let alone a blade. No, only fireballs and that trice cursed restoration spell that could kill him one day!

“Let go of me.” He said tiredly. He knew that if he wanted to he could tug his arm loose and without much trouble to boot. This was something he had to remedy. Have his husband train with the guards…or not, with how his guards would throw compliments at the Dragonborn like they were candy. No, if he wanted Stormblade to wield a blade in the near future, he would have to train him himself. Talos preserve him. He sighed and sat back down on the bed.

“While there is some truth to what you say, I still don’t find it wise to just up and leave. Maybe Alduin will defend the city. And maybe Galmer can keep hold of the other capital cities. But if not many will lose their lives in me reclaiming what belongs to Skyrim and her people. Is that what you wish of me, Lys?”

“I just want you to come with me. If you were anyone else if you didn’t rig the election, would you have joined me on my wandering?”

Ulfric wondered what to do. The Dragonborn was hell bend on getting what he wanted. If he didn’t receive it, he might just decide to go on an adventure with his “brothers” and then how long will it be until he was wholly corrupted and become too much like the lizards? Roasting on a mountain peak, hoarding things and attacking anyone and everything. Not long, that was for sure.

“If I am to come with you I wish for it to be with a good purpose. I will be leaving everything I have behind and in the claws of a Dragon for as long as we are away. For that I want you to start practicing with an iron dagger. I want to know that when you run out of Magicka you have the means to defend yourself, is that clear?”

The Dragonborn nodded and a smile spread on his face. His fingers tracing light patterns on his husband’s torso.

“There is a Blizzard outside, lokaal, we can’t leave just yet. I’d very much like to feel the warmth of your lover’s comfort for now.”

The Jarl of Windhelm lowered himself and obliged. There were some perks for him as well in this marriage now that they were no longer arguing.


	4. A song of nigthmares

The blizzard was still going on the next day, but that didn’t seem to dampen Lysander’s enthusiasm in the slightest. With a smile on his face and his two companions, Eric and Ulfric, he started his journey towards Dawnstar.

There were a few wolves and an Ice Wraight but all in all, everything was calm. As the three entered the town, they couldn’t help but notice that everyone seemed tired. With bags beneath their eyes and a haunted look in them, the townsfolk looked as if something was torturing them.

Wary the three went towards the Tavern in search of the answer. Maybe after a drink or two, the tavern owner would loosen his tongue. To their surprise they didn’t even need to talk to the man as some miner women had circled a Dunmer, complaining about bad dreams and searching for help. After the women had left Lysander approached the priest of Mara and asked him about the town’s situation. The Dark elf’s insistence that he couldn’t disclose the truth of the dreams lest he causes panic was slightly shady, but the Breton let it slide.

“I will come with you and assist you, but you have to tell me everything about these dreams.”

The priest fidgeted, before answering.

“You will not believe me and may even refuse to help if I did. It would be best if you experience them for yourself. Rent a room for the night and go to sleep. Then, and only then, will you see the extent of the Vaermina’s thread.”

Still not believing that the dreams were more than dreams, and being reassured by the tavern owner, a man named Thorig, that the bad dreams didn’t happen to travelers, he did as asked. After he paid for the beds he played a few songs on his lute to cheer the other patrons. He played until the very last person left the inn. After he collected his pay, 50 septims, a lot for such a town, he went to his room to see Ulfric already fast asleep and Eric sitting crossed legged on his bed and reading a book.

“Won’t you sleep, friend?”

“No, I’d rather not try my luck. Lysander you shouldn’t sleep either. A miner told me he almost didn’t wake one morning. As if something didn’t want to let him go. He hasn’t even tried to sleep in the past week.”

Eric’s eyes were full of concern for his employer. If it hadn’t been for Lysander he would still be at his father’s farm back in Rorikstead. His only excitement the Harvest festival and the occasional bandit raid. He would never have gotten his Dragonborn ebonsteal armor, nor his dragonbone sword, which he had named Flameburst, nor all of his enchanted items.

Sure working for the Breton hadn’t always been easy. What with all of the fireballs he loved to hurl around. There was this one time in the beginning when Lys had hit him square in the chest with one.

The Dragonborn had been aiming at a Draugr, but the creature had used his shield to bash Eric in the way of the coming projectile and so it was the Nord that had taken the full force of it. The young lad didn’t remember much about what happened next. They had been in the middle of nowhere, the snow had covered the land all around them.

It had taken him a week to recover and in this time Lysander had set up a camp in front of the Wolfskull cave, dragged him outside and took care of him the best he could. With only Wild Healing, the best Restoration spell that Lysander knew, it had taken a lot of tries to seal the wound shut, mostly because the recipients of it ended up being different animals.

Later the Breton told him he had used bandages soaked with a concussion made out of icewraight teeth and a potion of slow, to make sure he didn’t move a lot and that the seared flesh won’t hurt so much.

Eric had to be given sleeping tree sap to make the treck back to Solitude and afterward Lysander’s guilt had manifested itself in the desire to study the art of Enchantment. To make sure his fire spells never resulted in the death of his friends.

It had taken him months, the war took up most of the Breton’s time and his finances didn’t allow him to use anything but Petty and Lesser Soul gems to train, but he had finally done it. Nowadays Eric could resist as many Fireballs as Lysander could hurl and not break a sweat. For the Nord to let his friend do something as foolish as walking into a trap that manifested itself into an unending sleep was just not right.

“I will be fine”, assured him the other man, “Besides look at Ulfric, he sleeps like a babe, no nightmares are visiting him and he has plenty to disturb his sleep.”

With that being said Lysander climbed into the bed and curled up with his husband. Soon he was asleep and dreaming. At first, the dream was a pleasant one. He was making snow Giants with Sophie, the little flower-selling girl he wanted to adopt one day. There was a small puppy that ran underfoot and Ulfirc was carrying a large snowball, that could easily serve as a head for their creation.

Suddenly dream-Ulfric’s face darkened and he dropped the snowball to the ground.

“Why have you betrayed me, Stormblade?”

Confused Lysander tried to approach him only for Ulfric to step away from him.

“Why have you abandoned your humanity, Snow-Hammer?”

Ulfric asked again while continuing to step further and further away.

“Was the love the people of Skyrim bare you not enough, Bone-Breaker?”

The grimace on his lover’s face was full of mistrust.

“Do you finally have the family you wanted. Are the dragons truly worth giving up everything, Ice Veins?”

Ulfric had stopped at the edge of a lake. Covered in ice and yet on fire at the same time.

“Unblooded, bloodstained, bloodless! You swore a vow and yet you broke it! Look behind you, look at what you did to those you swore to protect!”

Lysander did just that. Where he should have seen a little girl and the unfinished snow Giant, there stood a small female Draugr wearing Sophie’s clothes. The creature looked up at him and beamed. “Bormah”(Father) it said. He tried to reach out to the Draugr, only for it to start avoiding him. Stepping out of reach, giggling like a small child, like Sophie had moments earlier. That was when he noticed that he wasn’t wearing his clothes, but rather a robe. Nor could he feel the icy bite of the wind, for he was wearing a mask.

Horrified he ran past Ulfric and to the lake. He saw it all. He was wearing Dragon priest robes and on his face was a dragon priest’s mask. The very first one he had stolen, the mask of the undead Lich Krosis. He fell to his knees and screamed. Next to him he Ulfric laughed cruelly.

“You thought we could be together forever and yet look what you did! You swore an oath! Should I remind you what it said?”

_I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloack_

_Jalr of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim._

_As Talos is my witness may this oath bind me to death and beyond…_

_…even to my Lord as to my brothers and sisters in arms._

_All hail the Stormcloacks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!_

“We are all Draugr now, Dragon Priest!” yelled Ulfric enraged.

“You broke your oath, now the Dragons rule us all and not even the witch elves want to grand us the mercy of freeing us by ending our undeath! Everyone avoids Skyrim!”

Now even Ulfric looked like a walking corpse. Right in front of Lysander’s eyes he too began to change. His hands were shriveling, yet he felt no pain. Panicked, he took Krosis’s mask off only to see that his face had also begun to sunken. His eyes transforming from the brown he had known his whole life into a glowing icy blue.

Lysander began to sob, yet no tiers were left in his eyes. A slow clapping sound was heard from underneath the water. His reflection had turned into one of a child he had known too well. That child was his brother, his real brother.

The one he had drowned into the well of their family’s home because of what happened to Mother and Father. His little brother had been innocent and naive. He had told the “kind” Thalmor lady that they still worshiped Talos. He had led the agents back to their home.

The two children were spared, but their mother and father were taken never to be seen again. And what had he done, as he had watched his foolish brother nimble on candy and wondering when their parents were coming home? He had waited until he was asleep, took him from his bed and carried him to the well. He dropped his brother inside and listened to his screams and pleas for days until there were none to be heard.

That was why he hated. The Empire, for allowing the Thalmor attack squads in High Rock. The Thalmor, for what he lost. Himself, for not doing anything to stop them. For what he did to his baby brother.

He fell to the side, on the now-dead grass. A part of him knew this was only a dream but he couldn’t wake up, no matter how much he wanted to. All had become quiet, but for soft footsteps. A gentle hand was laid on his shoulder. He could feel the moisture returning into his skin. His eyes remained blue, however.

“Rise, Dragonborn. We have much to discuss.”

He followed a young noble lady, wearing a beautiful purple dress and with a purple cloak strapped on her shoulders. They stopped at a table surrounded by chairs made of ebony. The table itself was crafted out of a single block of stone. It had purple stripes along its ages and was decked with his favorite foods. It had apple pies, honeyed baked apples, cheese and even a plate of the meat pie Ulfric once made him when Lysander asked him jokingly for a homecooked meal.

“You play games with many, Dragonborn, yet you are full of fear. You almost bypassed me and went straight to New Sheo in your dream. You go there and drink tea with Sheogorath every night, do you know that? Of course, you don’t, I don’t allow you to remember. I will ask you just like my brother asked you once, do you have any idea who I am, mortal?”

Lysander knew Sheogorath had only so many siblings and they were all well known.

“You are Vaermina the Dreamweaver.”

“Wonderful”, said she with a fake smile.

“Now tell me, mortal, why must you interfere with my fun. Do you not think I can turn your every dream in such a nightmare as tonight? Or are you here to offer me your services?”

“Never!”, screamed the Breton. “You are a monster. I will rid Dawnstar of you, even if its the last thing I do!”

“Sheogorath is also a monster, yet you took the Wabbajack. Why not take my artifact as well? Spread my influence in the world and you will dream only sweet dreams. And so will those you love. You don’t want to cause further distress to your dear Ulfric, do you? He is so tortured right now. Relieving the bad days after the war. You should ask him about it sometime. Why he is so afraid and cares so little for you he won’t even call for your aid in his dreams.”

The Daedric Princess’s smile reached her eyes now, sensing she had hit a sore spot.

“I can hunt you down, witch. Release me now, or you will be stalked until you regret it. I’ve never eaten daedric souls before, but you can be sure that for you I will make an exception.” Was the reply to the taunting given.

The smile fell off of Vaermina’s face then. Alduin could eat all souls, this brother of his might be capable of the same. Then again he might not be. In that case, he would ask the Worldeater to go after her and for the right price, the mighty dragon will hunt her. Still grimacing Vaermina knocked on the stone table twice and a door appeared.

“Leave then, but don’t forget my offer. The Skull of Corruption could be yours if you are to reach for it and if you do I will reward you.”

As he woke Lysander looked around himself. Ulfric looked peaceful enough in his sleep, but with what Vaermina had told him that was not the case. He tried to wake the Jarl but to no avail. Eric had also fallen asleep, despite what he wanted. Tiredly he made to freshen up, left a note behind for his two companions and went straight to the priest of Mara, Erandur.

“I’m ready, let's head out and stop this nightmare.”

Along the path to Nightcaller temple, they encountered a trio of snow trolls. Lysander used the “Finger of Death” on all three and collapsed on the snow. Healing himself was painful, but Erandur was not fireproof like Eric and Ulfric and so his fireballs were out of the question. And even if he did die, would it be worse than the nightmares that waited for him for daring to disobey a Daedric Prince?

Once they entered Erandur cast a fire spell to get rid of the barrier blocking the true entrance of the temple.

“Come, let me show you the source of Dawnstar’s nightmares,” said the Dunmer.

And here it was, the Skull of Corruption. From there on it was a dungeon crawl. First to find a book, then a potion that made him amazed at Vaermina’s power and more than a little afraid. Afterward, they had to make their way through the awakened Priests and Orcs.

Killing them with mace and restoration spell as they passed. Lysander hadn’t liked killing the last ones thou. They were loyal and betrayed and he felt slightly sorry for them. To be put down like that by their friend was something he feared.

Vaermina had tried to lie to him. To convince him to slay Erandur, Casimir, but he had not listened to a word. The skull disappeared back to Oblivion where it couldn’t harm anyone. It was what he thought until he heard a faint whisper by his ear.

_“Now that the skull is back by my side I can choose my targets. Thank you, Dragonborn. Sleep well.”_

He had failed yet again, it seems. Done what a Daedra wanted of him without even meaning to. He passed an Arcane Enchanter on his way back when suddenly the need to enchant struck him. As if in a dream he pulled an ebony vampire pendant and placed it on the device.

Before he could stop himself he uttered the words for fire resistance, frost resistance, and magic resistance, even though every enchanter could tell that three enchantments were an impossible feat. He sealed the enchantment with a Black Soul gem. The room spun as he was thrown away from the enchanter, which glowed a purple and green light before splintering in many small pieces. Among them was the pendant, glowing with the light of three enchantments.

_“There, now you have something to remember me by, Champion.”_

The Dreamweaver’s laughter rang in his ears. He was damned to Oblivion anyway. Because of himself, Hircine, Sheogorath and now Vaermina. Maybe he should go and do all the daedric tasks just to be spiteful. Make them fight among themselves for his soul. It was a good thing Erandur had already left the temple for if he had not he would have seen the Dragonborn smiling a deranged smile as he put the volkihar pendant around his neck.


	5. A song of regret

The morning found Lysander kneeling at the shrine of Mara. Praying for his soul, hoping for longer life and to never need to fall into the clutches of Daedra's. He knew he deserved it, yet he still had hope.

He had to make a plan for that. He made many plans these days. First, he had to figure out where the other Deadric Princes hid. Then he had to become the champion of every one of them. Collect their artifacts, hide them somewhere or destroy them. 

His hand reached to the newly enchanted pendant. Was it also a Deadric artifact now? Should he try to cast it in the forge infused with his blood in Whiterun and see what happens? Or keep it, having three enchantments on a single piece of jewelry was rare. The only other item he had that was similar was the necromancer’s amulet.

Feeling like there was nothing more he could do for now he made to return to the inn. What awaited him was a Fus-Roh-Dah to the face. To which he responded with charging Ulfric straight on using the Whirlwind Sprint shout.

He was glad when he hurled the Nord on the ground. Spitting blood on the ground he prepared a fireball while Ulfric’s hand grabbed a war axe, the same Lysander had crafted for him as a wedding gift, and made to stand up only for Eric to come between both of them.

“What is wrong with both of you? Why can’t you be happy, for once?”

“He went off by himself to consort with Daedra again! You dare ask me, a follower of Talos, what I find wrong with that, lad?” Spat the Jarl.

“Well next time I’ll invite you with me. Let you deal with the monsters that plunged this town into a walking nightmare!” Yelled Lysander back, smoke rising from his hand.

“I suppose you won’t even let me explain, then? Vaermina was feeding off the people of Dawnstar. I helped banish her artifact!” Continued the Dragonborn.

Ulfric lowers his axe. It was not what he had expected. The Breton before him had two Dedric artifacts already, a ring and a staff of some sort. It was no big stretch of the imagination for him to want a third one. The man he went off with was a Darkskin! Everyone knew they were Daedra worshipers! 

“And so you gained nothing from your excursion? Nothing at all, Dragonborn. Do not lie to me, you always get something for your services.”

Lysander’s face turned red with rage. How dare he? Accusing him of wanting anything else but the end of the nightmares, when Lysander himself had suffered from them? There were times he wondered why he even married the man. Lysander himself didn’t love the Jarl and the Nord held no love for him, either. Maybe there was something to the jokes Alduin made about his hoard in the making. He didn’t even know why he insisted on the Nord traveling with him. Sure, it was nice for someone to shout his enemy away in a pinch, but Eric and he had been doing just fine without Ulfric. 

He took the vampire pendant and threw it on the floor at his husband’s feet.

“It has three enchantments, thanks to Vaermina. I didn’t ask for it. Take it and destroy it Stormcloack, but it's no Deadric artifact!”

Ulfric picked up the offending item and inspected it. It was nothing special, nothing that looked too dangerous. But a Daedra had helped make it.

He had half a mind to throw it into the nearest forge and watch the ebony chain melt, the amethyst sinking to the bottom. Instead, he put his axe back in its place and made to approach Lysander only for Eric to step in his way. The lad determined to not let any harm come to his friend's way. 

“Step aside, lad. I just want to return his pendant to him.” 

Eric did so reluctantly. With one last look back at them, he left the room altogether and went to get himself a bottle of mead. After the dreams, he had last night, of Harvest festivals where women and animals were sacrificed so the soil could remain fertile.

The worst thing was that he had heard of such things and yet had done nothing, as he had been too young back then, But now, if he were to return to Rorikstead he would investigate the deaths that happened around every festival. And so help him, he might not be a Dragonborn of legend or the next High King, but he would make sure the responsible people paid.

Ulfric sight. A fireball, even one to the face, would do him no harm and Lysander knew that. He had been the one to make it happen. His dragonbone waraxe could maim Lysander for life, no matter how skilled the man was in the restoration school.

He shouldn’t have acted so rashly. But it was in his nature. He had acted like this in Markarth back in his youth and he had started and won the rebellion in the same manner. Now thou, he had to be careful.

He placed the pendant around Lysander’s neck and leaned in only for the Breton to step back.

“This marriage was a mistake, wasn’t it?”

Lysander’s head was held down. He knew the answer already yet it still hurt to hear it.

“It was. I can’t divorce you if the rumor spreads that the Dragonborn has given up on being happy with me then the people of Skyrim will question my abilities to govern them.”

“Why did you dream of last night? No wait, let me guess. No bandit, rebel dragon or draughr killed me so you had to remain with me until your dying day?”

“Don’t get so full of yourself.” Snorted Ulfric. “I didn’t dream of anything close to that and what I dream of is none of your business.”

It would not serve to tell Lysander that he had dreamed of the long months at the Thalmor’s mercy. Nor that he had called for help, had screamed Lysander’s name again and again until his throat had gone raw and he had finally woken up.

By the nine, he had to make this all work by himself. If he wanted to be happy, he couldn’t just treat his spouse like that. His father had never so much as raised his voice to his mother and here he was, threatening his husband with a waraxe.

“How about we do something different today. I lead and listen to the troubles of the people, and you and Eric follow me, hm?”

“I’m tired and need to rest. Take Eric with you and do whatever you want.”

And so Ulfric did. First, he spoke with a ship’s captain that was too green to be one. The boy had not recognized him. Lysander did always tell him the people of Skyrim didn’t know him all that well but for the Jarl to walk around in Dawnstar and to be mistaken for a common mercenary was new to him.

Was it the same for Lysander? How many people knew that they were treating the Dragonborn as a mercenary. Did the Breton ever tell anyone? 

After the retrieval of the salts, which were too far inland for them to be misplaced because of a simple accident, he went to purchase some potions from a kind old lady who told him to find the Ring of pure mixtures. The Jarl felt compassion for her plight and with Eric in tow, he braved the grato’s beasts and went back as quickly as he could. 

Once he returned to the inn, he learned that Lysander had gone to Morthal and back again. That he had spoken with a man named Silus, that they had run out of the town in a direction unknown. Ulfric went to the so-called museum of Dawnstar and regret and disappointment filled him. There was no reigning the Dragonborn in. No taming him or reasoning with him. He should have let him go to Hircine and washed his hands off him long ago.

It was dark when Lysander returned. They exchanged no words. There was no point. Two had left the town and now one returned with a new dagger, a filled black soul gem, and four grand ones. Instead, Ulfric just turned his back to him. The bed dipped slightly, and he felt Lysander embracing him.

“I have some unfinished business at Riften, afterward we can go check up on Windhelm. You can stay behind while I wander.”

It was an easy way out, that much the Jarl knew. Still, he would not surrender his scheme of a marriage so easily. He will win this war he was waging with Stormblade. He will get to know his people better and help them as Stormblade does. But he would find a way to keep Lysander out of Oblivion, if for no other reason than out of spite.


	6. A song of promises

They ended up staying for a whole week. Lysander had insisted he stayed at the inn and perform every night. His unusually high spirits were attributed to the Elsweyr fondue he kept on having for breakfast. 

Although the Dragonborn was slightly drugging himself, Ulfric thought everything else was fine. They had exterminated the Giants of the entire hold. Helped the people with their troubles. Killed a “rebel” dragon that attacked the town in the middle of the night, just as Lysander was playing the ancient nordic variant of “The Dragonborn comes”, which was ironic. 

The end of their stay was marked by a stressed looking courier, bearing a message from none other than Alduin himself. Apparently his lizardly highness missed his brother and wanted to see him again.

The only one willing to believe that was Lysander himself. They packed, said their goodbyes and in a strange show of haste took the boat leaving for Windhelm, rather than traveling on foot. 

After they entered the gates Lysander went in search of the little flower-selling girl. Without asking his permission he adopted her as soon as he heard her story. After the Dragonborn escorted her to Hjerim, he gave her an allowance of 1000 septims. Loaded the poor thing with enough sweets to open a stall and gave her a glass dagger, freshly sharpened.

As soon as they were out of Sofie’s hearing Ulfric put a hand on his shoulder.

“Why didn’t you bring her to the palace? There is more than enough room for any child of ours.”

That earned him a slight laugh.

“Ours now, is she? I’m sorry, but I want Sofie to live in a place where assassins won’t find her easily. Here she will be protected by my housecarl. Your guards will ignore her just like they did when she was out selling flowers in the cold.”

Ulfric desperately wanted to punch something.

“What would you have me do, then? Adopt every child? If you haven’t noticed Skyrim is recovering from a war! The towns are full of children just like her! I don’t have the resources to build a new orphanage! There have been rumors of the Aldmeri Dominion taking over parts of the Empire already. The Imperial city itself is threatened!”

Lysander opened his mouth to keep arguing but then thought better of it. If Ulfric wanted to fill his coffers to build an orphanage, he needed only to ask it of him. But these rumors, why was he just hearing of them?

He didn’t care much if the Empire fell. It was old and rotten anyway, it needed to be forgotten. But to fall to the Thalmor? Was his hatred strong enough to allow him to stay back and watch it happen?

“I’m being too hard on you, aren’t I? I’m sorry, Ulfric. If you need any help, just ask it of me.”

And there lay the problem. Lysander didn’t care about the small fortune he had amassed. He had never cared about septims. Being a talented bard from a young age, since the abduction of his parents, and the death, _murder_ , of his brother, he was too used to living hand to mouth. It wasn’t until he reached Skyrim and taken to being a mercenary that he even had over 50 septims to his name at a time. 

These days he only needed to wash the blood off his wares and present them to the nearest shop owner for him to earn his meals. It never occurred to him that Ulfric might also need some of this money.

So used to crafting everything he owns by himself he had done the same for his husband. He had sewn him an ornate bear cloak, lined with a fine fox pelt, enchanted to keep the Nord warm even in a blizzard. He had even made Ulfric an ebony sapphire crown, so the Nord can look even more kingly. 

He knew that next to Ulfric and Eric he didn’t look like a Dragonborn. What with wearing fine clothes which only redeeming quality was that one piece was slightly thicker than normal. But he just couldn’t see himself in heavy armor. With a heavy heart, he reached out and grabbed Ulfric’s hand. 

“I mean it. If you need gold, you can have everything I’ve saved up. I have little need of it, anyway.”

Ulfric looked at him as if he had spoken to him in Dovahzul.

“You… Do you think this is about money? You adopt a child, one I already told you we could adopt together. Which is fine. Then you trust a stranger, housecarl or no, with her upbringing. Why must you always try to pick fights with me? I am trying to support you in what you love best. I have left my hold unprotected for you. I have tried to help the people of Skyrim by your side. Why can’t we both try to make this work, Lys? You know what? I will take you up on your offer and stay behind. Speak with your brother, wouldn’t want to make the Worldeater waiting. No, that is only for us mare mortals.”

Without a word, Lysander left. The last thing he heard as he was closing the door was Ulfric introducing himself to a thrilled Sofie and telling her he would teach her how to use the dagger.

He couldn’t hear the whole response the girl gave, but he heard her calling Ulfric father. Lysander was glad that he had remained the holder of the title of Papa, the last thing he wanted was for his only child to be formal with him.

As he approached the palace, he couldn’t help but notice how everyone was on guard. Most of the watchmen had bows strapped to their backs. He supposed a giant dragon that ate souls was too intimidating for someone who didn’t know the beast’s true nature.

Oh, Lysander wasn’t keeping himself. Alduin was a beast, a cunning beast, but a beast never the least. Which made the Dragonborn no different, but slightly better at hiding his nature than his oldest brother. 

After everything Lysander had done, to himself and those around him, he couldn’t muster up the will to hate the Worldeater. The dragon had seen a likely minded individual in him and so their unsteady truce began.

Alduin using the opportunity to gather his forces and Lysander to gather his strength. Upon reaching his brother’s favorite perch, he bowed to him as a sign of respect for both his age and power.

“Brother, you wanted to speak to me?”

“Ah, Zaymah, you’ve been gone for so long I barely recognize you. You’ve grown a beard. Please tell me you won’t braid it like some of the volks here do.”

Lysander couldn’t help but chuckle.

“No, don’t worry. This land hadn’t made a proper Nord of me yet.”

It was Alduin’s turn to give a chuckle of his own. 

“You seem happy to run around and humor those around you by completing every task they think of. Would you do the same for me, brother?”

“Ask it of me, and I will consider it.” Replied Lysander nervously. He hoped it had nothing to do with filling black soul gems to bring his brother “snacks” from his adventures. He hated how the people inside screamed in agony, he didn’t want to listen their pleas to be released so they can reach Sovngarde.

“You see, baby brother, there is something that once belonged in my hoard that I need back. An amulet stolen long ago. It had the delightful ability to create barriers. I used to use it to protect the rest of my gold but now it's all gone. Should you return it to me I can finally stop roasting in this cold place. What do you say, brother?”

An amulet? That sounded easy enough. Without a second’s hesitation, Lysander replied:

“Sure thing. I’ll get it for you. But where can I find it, brother?”

Delighted that he wouldn’t have to leave his hoard Alduin grinned, showing off his teeth.

“The very first settlement of the nords, Saarthal. The people there feared me once. So much as to plunder my hoard once I was gone. I’ve been hearing the guards say that there is an expedition in its ruins. Perhaps you can retrieve my amulet for me, Dovahkiin.”

“Consider it done, I’ll come by in a month or two with your amulet.”

With that, the meeting between the two sons of Akatosh ended. There was no shouting match. Lysander knew that the people of Windhelm were confused and felt betrayed.

It was for their own safety. Pocking a very calm Worldeater now was the last thing they needed to do. Didn’t they realize that this was THE FIRST SON OF AKATOSH they wanted to put him up against? The same Akatosh who had defeated Mehrunes Dagon only two hundred years ago? His firstborn would be stronger than his youngest!

How long could he use the kinslaying excuse on them? Was he a coward for not wanting to bother Alduin? Yes. Did the dragon know it? Yes. Yet he felt no need to terrorize him and add to his troubles. For this Lysander didn’t mind doing a few chores from time to time. Did that make him no different from Alduin’s dragon priest? Maybe, he didn’t know anymore.

After he finished questioning the guards about this Saarthal, he found out it was in Winterhold territory. That the mages of the Collage were searching around for magical artifacts. It just won’t do for them to get their hands on his brother’s amulet.

By the time he was done dusk had fallen, and he decided it was too cold to be traveling, even in a carriage. He returned to Hjerim as he didn’t want to deal with Ulfric tonight. Once he crossed the doorway a nice scent of something cooking in a pot welcomed him. This place, where a butcher once used a necromantic ritual to bring his dead sister back to life, seemed changed somehow. 

It looked brighter, warmer even. He made his way to the kitchen and saw much to his astonishment that Ulfric was chopping carrots while Sofie was steering a stew. The little girl noticed him first. 

“Papa, Father and I are making beef stew! Do you want to help?”

“Sure, just tell me what to do.” Answered the still dazed Lysander.

He noticed that Ulfric had tensed and gripped the knife just a little harder than he should. For a moment Lysander thought he would be thrown out of his kitchen. The Jarl instead smiled at Sofie and handed Lysander a few potatoes that needed to be peeled and sliced.

The three of them made a good stew. Mostly thanks to Ulfric, as the only food Lysander could make seemed to be campfire stakes. They made the table and settled into a comfortable silence as they ate. Only to be interrupted as Ulfric cleared his throat.

“So how was your meeting with your brother today? What did he want from you?”

“Just to bring him an amulet from his old hoard. I’ll be traveling to the Collage of Winterhold tomorrow.”

“You will learn more about magic then, Stormblade?”

Lysander didn’t miss how the title sounded almost mocking. 

“I want to see if the college doesn’t have a few more powerful restoration and destruction spells they can teach me. I won’t be gone long, I promise.”

Promising more to Sofie than to Ulfric, but promising never the least.

“While you’re there, assist the resident Jarl with his troubles. He is a good friend of mine and could use the help.”

The Dragonborn hmed his agreement between bites of bread. This stew was fantastic, he should cook with Ulfric and Sofie more often. Like his mother and father had cooked with his brother and him. Like a family.

And there lay the problem. The roles of mother and father for the little girl sitting next to him were taken by two unwilling participants. Fools who had screwed up by trying to use each other.

“Papa, can you bring me a new book from the College?”

Sofie, bless her soul, was obvious to the tension around her. She was happy she wasn’t cold, hungry and alone anymore. Her new Papa was a hero and people sang of him in the taverns. Her Father was the Jarl of this hold, but he hadn’t treated her badly. He had even shown her how to use her dagger and read her a book. Had even promised he would find someone to teach her to read and write! 

“I will sunshine, perhaps we can read it together, what do you say?”

Beaming up at him the little girl finished up her dinner and went to practice with her dagger, leaving the two men alone.

“Are you going to stay for the night, Ulfric?”

“I would ask you if you would go back to the palace with me, Lysander. But it seems you are not in the mood to attend to your duties as a Thane in my court. Or as a consort. So yes, I will remain here tonight. Unless you want me gone?”

No, Lysander didn’t want him gone. He wanted to be happy with this man, darn it. But it was all built on a lie. Still, he was a stubborn Breton. He would be damned if he didn’t try.

“Oh, I love you so, darling. How could you think I would want you gone from our home? Away from our child?”

That wording hadn’t escaped Ulfric’s notice. He stood up and approached the Breton slowly, as if afraid he would forego sleeping and just head straight to his new adventure.

“Lets head upstairs, we both have long days ahead of us.”

The Dragonborn took his hand and allowed himself to be led to the bedroom.

“I’m not sleepy yet, Ulfric. Can we play a game of lies?”

“You mean our marriage isn’t enough of a game for you?”

Ulfric wasn’t even angry anymore. Just tired. Why couldn’t even getting his husband to bed easy for once?

“But fine. You start.”

Lysander smiled from ear to ear.

“Let's see. I can’t get enough of you, darling. You are the sunshine of my life, my love. Why, if I go even a single day without you I become a wreck.”

Turning around he was pulled in an embrace.

“My turn then. I’ll always be by your side, dove. I want you and no other, love. My heart belongs to you forever, my love. And you know what, I don’t play games and that's the truth. You think I can’t make you feel loved and make you care for me? Then you are lying to yourself. By the time I’m done, we will have a proper marriage. This child downstairs will have a happy family. And if it means I need to make you stop hating yourself to achieve this, then I will.”

“I don’t hate myself.” Whispered Lysander.

“You do, or else you wouldn’t deny yourself some happiness. Now come to bed, dove. I need to hold you in my arms.”

“The proper term is dovah, not a dove, Ulfric.”

“I didn’t stutter.”

So what if their marriage had started off bad? He could still fix it for their sakes. With these thoughts, Ulfric nuzzled his lover’s neck and drifted off. He tried to think that tomorrow the Breton might still be in his arms.

And if he wasn't he won’t be disappointed. He would take Sofie with him and raise her during the absence of her papa. He had a whole hold to keep him occupied. He had to learn to forgive and forget for now. And wait for the day when he wouldn’t have to.


	7. A song of war

Ulfric was worried. So much so that he couldn’t stop pacing in the war room. There were reports from his spies amid the fleeing Imperial Legion that the Thalmor witch elves had broken the treaty and marched on Cyrodiil.

The Emperor had hidden somewhere along with most of the nobility, leaving everything up to the military leadership, of which they didn’t have much after he had finished Tullius off.

The High elves were going to strike Skyrim next, he just knew it. After they had failed in taking Hammerfell they would be wary of trying again so soon. But Skyrim was still recovering from his rebellion. It had been necessary, yet that didn’t change how weakened his home was.

His brow furrowed as he viewed the map in front of him. He would have to send reinforcements to all the forts. There was no time to repair them and no workers left to do so. If Cyrodiil was to fall, then the most obvious move would be an attack on Falkreath.

He had no idea how many of the witch elves were already on his land. The worst was that he couldn’t risk attacking the Thalmor Embassy to find out.

“The Dragonborn can’t find about this, not yet. He will fight and won’t notice he destroyed more than he protects.”

Galmer agreed with him silently. As much as he valued Stormblade he couldn’t help but admit that the man was far too reckless. He had seen first hand how happy he was killing anyone in his path during the taking of Whiterun.

It had almost turned into a sacking, had he not restrained his souldiers before they followed the Dragonborn’s example. That was the reason why the man hadn’t been asked to help take any other city but Solitude.

“How do you suggest we do that? One of the guards will let it slip we are fighting the witch elves.”

Ulfric drank from his goblet and seemed lost in thought.

“He headed to Winterhold because of some task Alduin set him. He will surely get distracted there and stay at the Collage. Might even learn new fire spells, Talos preserve us.”

Galmer laughed at that.

“I told you not to marry the lad. He had eyes for someone else already, different sides of the war be damned. I told you he needs a flatterer and you are too honest for it by far. You shouldn’t have taken him to bed in the first place.”

“I know, but there was a chance, in the beginning, he would abstain from the war. Its what Siddgeir wanted of him. It was the first thing I could think of.”

Lysander wouldn’t betray Skyrim. He wouldn’t have stood by and let it fall to the Empire. No, Galmer knew that Ulfric was using the same old excuse because he didn’t want to admit that his choice wasn’t forced at all.

The Dragonborn had been in a weak state of mind back then. Still, it wasn’t Galmer’s place to question who his Jarl marries.

“Siddgeir spends his days in the Blue Palace, drinking himself under the table and blaming Stormblade for all of his shortcomings. Do you think a man like that can steal Lysander from you? But enough of this. We have a war to plan.”

Ulfric put his goblet down and looked at the map. Falkreath had no protection. The forts he could man were surrounding the now destroyed Helgen and were therefore useless. There was someone who could help, though. There was a dragon that had encroached on his hospitality for far too long.

He walked with a purpose towards the Worldeater. Today was the day he was going to make Alduin earn his keep. When he arrived the dragon was fast asleep, a Fus-Roh-Dah later and he was wide awake.

“What do you want, you damned mortal?”

“For you to help protect the land the air of which you waste with every breath, lizard!” Shouted back Ulfric unfazed.

Alduin looked just about ready to hurl a fireball at the offending Nord. Not only was he preventing his influence from spreading but he was also keeping his baby brother away from him! Where was he going to find another Dragonborn so reluctant to kill dragons? One that considers them his kin?

He had thought that maybe he could wait for his brother to die of old age before bringing the end of this world and flying to the next. Maybe take his soul with him and put it in a true dragon’s body, where they could fly together and rule over the mortals undisputed. But this man, this Ulfric, was making it hard for the dragon to keep himself in check.

“I have been protected your ancient Nord ruin of a town from bandits with my mere presence! Is that not enough, mortal?”

Ulfric shook his head.

“I need your brethren to roost in Falkreath and kill any witch elf they see.”

The Worldeater considered the request. On one hand that meant free meals for his brothers and him. On the other this was Skyrim. The place wasn't exactly known for having many of said “witch elves”. If the foolish mortal was asking this of him then another war was coming.

“Where is my brother, mortal? Why isn’t he asking this of me?”

That made the mortal nervous. Would Alduin agree to go behind Lysander’s back? Even with the promise of allowing the Dragon to eat all the souls of the invading elves, it was not certain. And the Dragonborn would find out eventually. What would he use as an excuse then?

“He is at the College of Winterhold. He was sure that he would find whatever you send him for there. He is yet to return. Lysander would have headed straight to you if he had.”

The Dragon spread his wings in a show of agitation.

“So you wish to wage war without him yet you think I will side with you? Why should I? What do you have to offer that I can’t just take from you?”

“You don’t scare me, Alduin.” Said the Jarl “There is no way you can explain my death to your brother. If I am to perish in this war and he finds out you did nothing to prevent it all of your efforts to earn his trust will be lost.”

Alduin roared angrily in response. Then a thought struck him. This Jarl liked to be on the frontlines. He liked to give speeches to his warriors before they headed to their deaths. If a meteorite or a wayward shout was to strike him then it won’t be his fault, now would it? With a sly grin, the great Dragon continued their exchange.

“I’m still curious, why ask me for help? Why not Lysander. He is always so happy to go and wage war in your name. He has no love for the Thalmor, just like he had none for the Empire. A true dragon, that one. He would surely incinerate your enemies for you, Stormcloack.”

“He destroys more than he saves. I’d like to keep him out of the fighting.”

“And you think I don’t destroy just as much as he does, if not more?”

“There is little you can destroy at the border. Your very presence might deter the elves from crossing. If not you can always eat their souls.”

The Jarl’s shoulders were slumped. Having Dragons protect Skyrim would be a great warning for the elves. Even they feared the flying lizards. If Alduin agreed to this now the war might just be avoided. He hoped Lysander didn’t find about this.

He turned to leave and listened with satisfaction as the great beast’s wings clapped behind him. The dragon flew in the direction of Falkreath. It was a necessary precaution.

It was not until days later he heard that the elves had taken the Imperial city that he knew that he had made the right decision. The Dragon constantly send him messages. Of how the elves kept trying to sneak past him only to be turned into a meal.

Alduin had made sure not to damage the supply convoys too much as the Stormcloacks were always in need of something or the other and if they took it from the elves all the better.

The one-sided slaughter that was the Falkreath border had made him overconfident. Too much perhaps. He had all but forgotten that the Thalmor already had agents in Skyrim before the war.

He awoke one morning only to hear that Solitude had fallen, taken by the agents from the Embassy. There was no way he could let it stand. But there was also no way he would let dragons help liberate it.

This war he fought now was much more dangerous than the last. Even the lowest ranking Thalmor had centuries of experience to their name. And they hadn’t just taken over the city, no. To put salt in the wound they had also managed to capture Lysander somehow, with the rumors being that he had been ambushed and paralyzed by an operative named Ancano.

The letter of the Thalmor had said they had the Dragonborn in Magicka sealing chains. If he didn’t want to see the heads of all of the people of Solitude on spikes he was to call the dragons away from the border.

It was not surprising that Alduin flew back to Windhelm mere hours after Ulfric received the demands, probably having been told the same threats. While he was sure the dragon cared nothing for the people of Solitude it was not so for Lysander.

The dragon roared at him. Now the war was personal.

“I will not call off my brothers! The elves will rue the day they captured one of the sons of Akatosh! But you! Where were you when my brother needed you? Why haven’t you taken your armies and marched yet, Stormcloack?”

“The letter said…”

Tried to counter Ulfric only to be interrupted by a roar.

“You will not surrender! Take your armies and march, I will follow you from the air.”

“Surrendering was never my intention, beast. I can’t take my armies away from the border. If we were to try and storm Solitude Lysander will be the first to die. You know that, don’t you?”

Alduin lowered his head and growled. He did know. He wasn’t sure he could resurrect Lysander like he could the rest of his brothers. He was powerful, but the Breton had played around with Daedras. His soul was bound for Oblivion.

“What do you suggest then? We leave him to their mercy?”

“No, this will require someone well versed in walking among the shadows. We will need someone who will be discreet and unafraid of the Thalmor.”

“And where will we find such a mortal, Stormcloack?”

Ulfric looked down at his feet. As much as he disliked having to deal with this scum there was no other way.

“The Thieves Guild, in Riften.”


	8. The Song Bird and the Catcher

Lysander didn’t know how this happened. One moment he was hunched over the amulet he found in Saarthal. Trying to figure out if it was the one Alduin wanted him to retrieve or not. The next he was knocked unconscious and carried into a cave of some sort. A falmer infested one, by the looks of it.

Ancano was sitting smugly next to him. Unafraid of his magic or shouts. And why should he be when every time Lysander tried to use it on him he felt tired. So tired that he had knocked himself out after almost every try.

“We were preparing for you for a long time, Dragonborn. You can’t shout or fireball your way out of this.”

It was all too amusing for Ancano. It hadn’t been hard to put the chains on him. The Dragonborn might have a nearly endless supply of Magicka and staffs on him, but he was physically weak. It had taken a well-aimed paralyze spell and quick thinking. And now here the man was, entirely on Ancano’s mercy.

“You could fight your way out, but from what I hear you are hopeless at a braw.” Ancano moved closer as the Dragonborn tried to get further back only to feel the stone behind him. The Altmer smiled and touched Lysander’s nose.”Do us both a favor and stay quiet, look pretty and quit your aggravating attempts to escape.”

Lysander’s face turned red with anger. He hated being laughed at, but to be treated as a child as well? The Altmer will burn for this!

“Anyway, it's not like your magic abilities are any better. To have to wait for so long to learn any destruction spell beside Fireball? Are you a novice or a master?”

The Altmer hadn’t made a move to distance himself but had removed his finger from the Breton’s nose, at least.

“How are you still alive and making trouble for everyone is beyond me. My suggestion was to simply kill you, but my superiors said I wasn’t even allowed to torture you, lest you become incapable of devouring Dragon souls. Everyone seems to fear the lizards, but if you are their greatest threat, how dangerous could they possibly be?”

“Are you done monologing? Or will you tell me about your evil plans for me next?” snapped the Dragonborn.

Ancano inspected his nails and pretended he hadn’t heard a thing.

“People will notice my absence, you know? I will be free before you know it and then you’ll be dead!”

Ancano stopped pretending and exhaled sharply.

“You are a Breton. In your dossier, it said you are a second-generation one at that. Your mother was a High Elf and you had a Breton for a father. You are more mer than human. Why is that you insist on helping these insects?”

Lysander remained quiet. If there was indeed a dossier on him then the High Elf knew very well why. Perhaps he even knew of his real brother as well too. There was no point in entertaining Ancano in answering him. He will never side with the Thalmor. They had taken everything from him and how he wished he could return the favor.

Chained as he was he knew that that was impossible. If the Altmer would only fall asleep maybe then he could use his slight knowledge in sneaking and pickpocketing to snatch the key to his chains and then well. Oh, how he was going to wreck the place with the new Bombardment spell he learned last week!

And so he waited until finally, he could see that Ancano was fast asleep. Confident that Lysander’s skillset included only Destruction and Restoration magic. Quietly as he could the Dragonborn moved closer, mindful of the chain’s clunking.

He nearly reached Ancano only to be zapped from a lightning rune. When had the Altmer even set one of those? Lysander had watched him like a hawk and not once did the Altmer even try to set a rune!

Unfortunately, that served only to wake up Ancano. The elf shot up from his bedding and looked around for a possible attack. Only to see Lysander glaring daggers at him, his hand held firmly to his chest, giving involuntary twitches now and again.

“Hm, I didn’t even hear you sneak up on me, perhaps you could be made into an operative after all.”

That made Lysander stop and stare. Did they think that he could betray everything he cared about?

“Why so shocked, Dragonborn? Do you think that anyone can escape the Thalmor once they are in its clutches? I couldn’t and neither will you. We have something you want above all else. She is traveling as we speak.”

Lysander lowered his hand and backed further into his corner. He didn’t know who this “she” is and he didn’t care. What would the Thalmor do? Pretend that one of them is his long-dead mother? As if he will fall for that.

“You have nothing I want, you know that don’t you? What can you offer me? My life? I don’t care for it if I have to betray Skyrim and High Rock to the Thalmor. Spells and incantations? Well, that's what the Collage is for. Unless this “she” can somehow manipulate minds then I doubt you can do anything against me.”

“Torture will work, Dragonborn. It always does. And I won’t do anything to stop it, not that I want to anyway. It is in your best interest to accept the offer when it comes.”

Ancano didn’t want to do this. He was supposed to be a diplomat, an adviser. As well as a double agent, of course. But there was some honesty to his previous actions. Now however there was none. The boy in front of him will be reconditioned and going around in Thalmor robes as soon as _she_ arrives. The only one of them that had uncovered the secret of the enslavement of the snow elves by the dwemer.

“So you don’t want to dirty your hands, is that it?”

That had been enough to bring the Altmer’s attention back to the boy in front of him.

“I don’t, and there won’t be a need for it. Dragonborn, you can’t just blunder your way through Tamriel and expect no repercussion. This will be a valuable lesson for you.”

Ancano began playing with his dagger. He had thought he could do just that, once. Had been an adventurer and then he had taken an arrow to the knee, among other things. His high mastery of speechcraft had doomed him.

But he didn’t mind anymore. He had a purpose now, a greater calling. He was chosen by the agents of the first Thalmor to bring elven supremacy to all the lands. His thoughts were clear now, unlike before when he had to worry about silly emotions like anger and grief.

It had been a blessing, not that he had thought of it like that in the beginning. He hated having to lie and steal back then. But as days turned to weeks to months and finally even years bled to centuries he found he no longer cared. If what was said about the longevity of Dragonborns was true, then neither will the boy.

“I wonder thou-” continued the Thalmor agent”-are you tormented by memories? Burdened by guilt? Your dossier did say you drowned your own younger brother and then left your home to become a bard. How does such a cursed child grow up to be so self-righteous, hm?”

Lysander opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it. How did it happen? As a bard, he was no stranger to thieving and selling other people’s secrets. Secrets that had costed the lives of their owners.

And now he was suddenly a war hero, a protector of the weak? Except, no. He still didn’t care about people in general. Just a select few. These people had changed something in him. Helped wash his hands a little. Had decided for him who was evil and who was righteous.

He opened his mouth once again only to be interrupted by footsteps. A slender Altmeri woman entered the cave. She looked old. Her hair was pure white and so was her skin. But there was something strange about her skin. It was too white when she should have had yellow skin even in her old age. Her eyes were ice blue, but she had to be an Altmer. She was wearing Thalmor robes and looked quite tall.

“Ancano, how is our guest?”

Her voice was surprisingly gentle for someone who was sent to torture another being.

“His hand is a little hurt but its nothing that hadn’t happened before.”

Replied Ancano. Now it was going to start. The boy looked confused, as he should. Ancano himself had been when he was first approached by the first Thalmor agent. The most ancient among them, perhaps the only true immortal left in this world.

“I suppose it can’t be helped. They always try to sneak away from recruitment.”

The elven lady started to take out bottles and differently cowered jars. Lysander could recognize some of the things in them. Those were alchemy ingredients! As the revelation hit him he started to think of a way to escape.

The next thing the lady took out was a mortar and a pestle. As she started mixing the Vampire dust with the ghost wrappings while dripping something that suspiciously smelled of a mix between Sleeping Tree Sap and Glowing mushrooms, he started panicking.

Were they going to turn him into a Vampire? How was he going to return to his friends? How was he ever going to return to Ulfric like that? The man was probably going to say enough was enough and send the Vigilant of Stender after him this time, whenever it was his fault or not. But if they wanted him to become a Vampire why not just invite one here instead of using a concoction?

While he was too busy panicking he didn’t notice Ancano pour paralyze poison on top of his head. He fell on the cold ground, unable to move. Whatever weak attempt to escape his panicked brain could have made now moot.

The Altmeri woman reached out to right Lysander’s hair. Framing his face with his curls.

“Dragonborn, it is an honor to finally meet you. I admit I have only met one of your predecessors, but he chose to drown in an escape attempt to reach the Graybeards rather than to drink my lovely tea. I couldn’t risk it with you.”

With that, she forcefully opened his mouth and slowly poured the concoction down his throat, while also massaging it to force the paralyzed Breton to ingest it all.

The next thing Lysander knew was darkness. It was all-consuming. He could hear cries of pain from within it, but he realized he couldn’t move. No, instead of him trying to reach the source of the screams they sounded nearer and nearer as if the screaming people in the darkness were running towards him.

There in the darkness, a mirror appeared. This was not real, he kept telling himself. Just a dream. The mirror didn’t show his reflection. It showed his childhood home. He was happy, helping his three-year-old brother eat his porridge so Mother could finish mending some of Father’s clothes.

His baby brother, _Arior, a voice that sounded just like that woman that had plunged him into this nightmare whispered in his ear_ , was clapping his tiny hands. He had never been a difficult child. Never making a fuss as another spoonful was brought to his lips. _Unlike you, until he no longer was “not difficult”, right Lysander?_

His brother clapped his hands once, twice and then he waved to someone at the door. Lysander closed his eyes, he knew what happened next. The Thalmor had come with his father in toll. They had found him with an amulet of Talos, they said. His mother had to come in for questioning as well. Just a precaution. Then his mother’s pleas for the children to at least be brought to their aunt. These pleas had fallen on death ears.

He had known what the Thalmor was back then. That Father and Mother would never come back. But it was when one of the agents approached his brother _, Arior, whispered again the voice_ and handed him a bag of candy with a smile and an _“As promised”_ that his rage had reared its ugly head.

He had waited until his parents were taken away and down the well little Arior went. _He had begged and cried and you laughed and you cried with him until he stopped. You haven’t cried since then, you poor dear. Whispered the voice._

The mirror’s image changed into a tavern. He remembered it well. The innkeeper had taken him in as a bard after he had listened to him performing a Breton jig on the street, trying to earn enough for his supper.

The scrawny thing that he was back then it was probably out of pity than because of his talent. He remembered being grateful to the kind old woman. Remembered that he swore to never tell her secrets to anyone. When she had died of old age five years later he was back on the streets.

This time his performances earned him his supper much more easily. With his father’s lute in hand, he charmed the passerby's and sold their gossip to strangers. It had been harmless at first.

Girls wanting to know if their crush was bringing others to listen to his music. Boys wanting to know if a girl would come too frequently so they could talk to her. Until he had found out a secret that wasn’t so innocent. Of a shipment of gold ores and how it was supposed to be lost.

He had gone directly to the city guards with it, being happy he had done something right, for once. They had treated him to a proper home-cooked meal that night, made by the wife of the Captain of the Guard himself. On the morrow, there were three new heads on the spikes along the wall. A message of what happened when one steals from the Thalmor. _You helped us once, you will do it again. The woman was embracing him as if he was her child. But that was no mercy, if it had been she would have shielded his sight from the mirror._

It changed again. He was at the border between High Rock and Skyrim. He had just finished giving all of his papers for inspection. He had decided to go and join the Bard’s College in Solitude. On the way, he was stopped by bandits.

He had known only the fire rune spell back then, an old lesson from his mother. They burned and screamed and he was winded from all the zig-zagging he did to escape. _Oh, how happy you were when you achieved victory at last. As your enemies burned and begged around you. Burned by a dragon._

There was something sinister in the voice now, but he couldn’t place it. He shouldn’t have been so happy back then. By the nine, what was wrong with him? He was no hero, never had been. Instead, he was _…_ _”the villain”._ Said Lysander together with the voice of the mysterious woman.

The mirror started changing again. He could see Siddgeir throwing a vase at him, aimed at his head only for it to crash on the wall behind him. _You cost the man everything, yet he still loves you._

The next scene was him asking Ulfric what was in it for him if he joined his cause. He had been jocking and more than a little drunk back then. It ended up with a tumble in the sheets and a very broken marriage followed. _You can’t possibly be happy with any of this, can you Dragonborn?_

“Stop,” Lysander said “I already hate myself enough for this! For all of it! You won’t make me into a Thalmor, if anything, I hate your kind even more now!”

_“This was never supposed to persuade you, Lysander. You are already ours, all you’ve seen is merely a side effect of the potion you drank. As we speak Ancano is removing your chains. You are harmless to us now. A Thalmor robe will suit you just fine, but these are not my plans for you yet.”_

The voice took a minute to chuckle and then continued.

_“I like to recruit Bards above all else. Song Birds inspire trust in those around them for some reason. Now, once you wake up you will return to the College of Winterhold and continue to study magic. All is well, you just went to help the Jarl with the clearing of_ _a Fort. That is your cover story if anyone is to ask. Now be calm, or I will bring you back into this place until you lose your mind.”_

Ancano looked at the Dragonborn with pity. Once one is a Thalmor agent there was no escape. He knew he should have felt something stronger than pity, but he was forbidden from feeling anger long ago. And so he made his way back to the Collage as a misty-eyed Dragonborn walked in the opposite direction to clear up a Fort from necromancers.


	9. The heist

Lysander sat on his bed, reading a book on diseases. It was always fascinating to study Restoration magic. He liked mending broken bones. Mostly his own. He was never so sadistic as to capture someone whose bones he could break again and again and so he had learned to do so on himself.

By the time he had found out there were potions to close cuts, mend broken bones and so on, he had become so proficient in something he wasn’t supposed to know that he didn’t bother with them.

He had orders, given to him by Ancano, to just study what he wanted and remain at the Collage. And that was what he was going to do. The Necroplague spell he was looking at now did what he wanted in theory, but in practice, it was just too weak. He needed to make it stronger. Remade it somehow. Maybe add the rattles or rock joint to it, give it more of a bite.

But as much as he wanted to do that he had no idea how to transmit diseases. He played with the idea of letting a skeever bite him and then studying the different stages of the disease. There was one slight problem, he wasn’t allowed to leave the Collage just yet and so that was out of the question.

Huffing he put the book down and lay back down on the bed. He had so much time now that he wasn’t worrying about nonsense. So what if he did the things he saw in the mirror? He had an opportunity to make it all right!

He could help the Altmeri Dominion to spread its influence. Why his mother was an Altmer, surely she would have wanted him to help her people. Except he couldn’t shake the feeling that she would be disappointed, hate him for it even. That was a silly feeling. He was on the right side of the war, that he knew with certainty.

He wondered briefly about the woman who had recruited him. The one who had shown him the truth of himself. She didn’t have magic similar to any Altmer who he ever met. Why was she so different?

Maybe she was so old she changed her energy somehow? For a brief moment, he entertained the thought of infecting her with Necroplague. There was something within him that wanted to see how effective the spell would be against her. How much pain it will inflict. But these feelings were quickly replaced by a splitting headache.

His hands started to twitch, his teeth were grinding against each other. Was he in shock? No. He wasn’t cold either. It was almost like fatigue. He put the book away and made himself focus past his panic attack. On the important things in his life. On the Aldmeri Dominion and his daughter, Sofie and…his head started hurting him even more.

His adopted daughter was a Nord. There was no place in the new world he was going to create for her. He had dragon blood. He was expected to remarry and produce a real heir, but oh, how he didn’t want to. But it didn’t matter if he wanted to or not, did it? If the Dominion asked it of him, if the Pale Lady asked it of him, he would do it in a heartbeat.

That wasn’t right. Nothing was right. He didn’t want to kill Sofie. He wanted to give her a happy family together with Stormcloack, Ulfric. Why was he calling his husband by his last name? Another Nord, why had he married him in the first place. He should have married an Altmer, maybe then he wouldn’t have to put up with all the daily drama.

Lysander willed himself to stop thinking of them, his family. His new family was the Dominion. His orders were to learn and not think about trivial matters. As soon as he starts following them there would be clarity again. His head was pounding heavily.

_Don’t think about them._

_Study_

_Think about the Dominion._

He kept repeating these words like a mantra until his head felt like splitting in half and he fell on the bed, unconscious.

The autumn leaves fell gently on the ground. Ulfric had no idea he could find the thieves guild. Apart from rumors that they inhabited someplace called “The Ratway” he had no other leads.

This entire town was going to the dogs. He was forced to remind a corrupt guard of his duties before he even managed to get inside. Honestly, what was Laila doing if the corruption had spread among her guards?

A red-haired swinger had tried to talk him into a robbery. After he had time to prove that he was, in fact, the Jarl of Windhelm, he was offered to be sold some Falmer blood elixir instead, sure to “Put you on the throne of the High King in no time!”

“It is not what I came here for, I need information on the Thieves Guild. If you know anything at all about them I command you to tell me everything at once!”

.” You command me? Well, then who am I to not oblige, Jarl. I am but an honest merchant and yet I hear they are down in the Ratway. Just down in the canals, the entrance has an iron gate in front of it, you can’t miss it.”

He wondered now if this “honest merchant” wouldn’t have led him straight to the Thieves Guild if he had just bought some of the elixir. As it stood he had to fight his way through the scum of Riften. It was slightly amusing to watch them try and take him out. He had not stopped himself from bursting in laughter as someone charged him barehanded.

By the time he reached what looked like a pub, his war axe was covered in blood and he felt slightly better. Fighting was what he was good at. It was what his father had thought him to do. He had fought his entire life, he wasn’t going to let the witch elves steal from him.

Much to his surprise, the Swingler from earlier waited for him at the bar. A frown marring his face. If the Nord hadn’t wanted for the scum to die then he shouldn’t have played his games with him.

Everyone had their hands on their weapons. Ready to fight him if he were to show any signs of aggression. A grumpy looking man approached him without fear.

“My name is Mercer Frey, what can I do for you, Jarl?”

Mercer sized up Ulfric Stormcloack in front of him. What use were thieves to one who had legal ones? Oh sure most guards were supposed to be noble, but they were the same everywhere. For a Jarl to head down personally and not send anyone in his stead was unheard of.

“I need your help with the reclamation of Solitude. For it to happen with as little victims as possible someone has to open the gates from the inside.”

Mercer had heard about that, only a fool didn’t know about the war between the Altmeri Dominion and the Stormcloacks, who fought alongside dragons to defend the borders. He had expected to hear more about the Dragonborn’s prowess in battle but the only rumors he had heard was that he stayed in Winterhold and kept himself occupied with Restoration magic of all things.

Then there was another rumor. That the Dragonborn acted strangely these days.That perhaps he was a bit too focused on his books. That it wasn’t normal for him to ignore the world around him and had even been abducted by the Thalmor at some point.

If this man in front of him was indeed Jarl Ulfric Stormcloack then it was strange he wouldn’t include a request for information on the Dragonborn as well.

“What's in it for us?”

Noble cause or no Mercer would be a bad guild master if he passes up a chance to make a profit. And from what he heard about the Dragonborn and his marriage to the Jarl in front of him he had the feeling that he was going to get his pay out of a dragon’s hoard, rather than the Jarl’s coffers.

That seemed to make Ulfric slightly nervous. He had an army that needed outfitting and feeding and wages. He had precious little gold as it was. With the help of the Dragons, whose pay was the corpses of the elves, he was keeping the Thalmor at bay for now. Should another incident like the one in Solitude happen he would need his army to handle it. The dragons wouldn’t leave any survivors.

Then there was the abduction of Lysander that turned to not be an abduction at all. His friend Korir had sent him a letter thanking him for what Lysander had done for him, as per Ulfric’s request. But there was something rotten in all of it. Lysander hadn’t sent him a letter since then. He had a mind to go and see why the Thalmor had taken responsibility for an abduction that didn’t happen but thought better of it.

Lysander was capable of taking care of himself. He didn’t need to be babied by him. After Solitude was liberated then he would travel to the Collage and see how Lys was doing. It wasn’t like he didn’t care, he simply had more lives at stake in Solitude.

“Name your price, Frey.”

Mercer started to consider everything. This would be a one-man job, any more and they would just fill the Thalmor’s dungeons. It would have to be him to do it. He was the only one with a special key that opened all doors, not that anyone knew of it. For a dangerous heist like this, there was only one price he could name.

“I want the Jagged Crown, Stormcloack.”

Ulfric grit his teeth. Whoever had the Jagged Crown had his bid for the throne of the High King increased tenfold! The thief would sell it to the highest bitter and that wouldn’t be him, that much was certain.

Still, he couldn’t leave a proud nordic town in the hands of the Thalmor. Even if the people there still cursed his name behind closed doors. He supposed that the sword of High Queen Freydis and his military victories would be enough to keep his claim.

“You will have it after Solitude had been liberated and not a moment sooner.”

Mercer smirked at that. The job was going to be almost impossible, but the reward was practically priceless. He worked fast on forging a contract with the Jarl, least the man’s honor was not enough to make him keep his word.

If the other Jarls found out a thief had saved innocent lives and their prime candidate for High King had tried to cheat him then they might think twice before doing anything Stormcloack wanted of them, least they ended up cheated themselves.

After they both signed the contract Mercer send Vex to escort the Jarl out of the Rat way. The guild master packed fast. He didn’t need much. Civilian clothes, his key and a couple of poisons for the road.

Instead of living through the main entrance he chooses to go through the catacombs below the city. By the time he exited he looked like just another of Riften’s inhabitants. Instead of traveling on the open road, he decided to take a carriage to Morthal. It would be foolish to take one directly to the captured city.

He sneaked as quietly as he could through the barren swamp. Smiling to himself as he passed a Chaurus and the beast didn’t even notice his presence. He was not known as the best in the Thieves guild for nothing.

It wasn’t the first time he had to sneak his way into Solitude and so he knew of the cavern right next to the mill. It was a bit too obvious and the Thalmor knew it. They had guards on every entrance.

How were they still keeping their city and inspiring fear within the populace while they were stretched so thin was a mystery for him. Well, he did know how. The Thalmor’s torture experts were renowned across all of Tamriel.

Smiling his best smile he went up to one of the Thalmor guards and punched him square in the face. Just like the Dragonborn had done to the foolish guard who had listened to Brynjolf’s schemes about earning some coin on the side by stopping travelers on the main gate.

The effect was just as he had imagined. The elves had bristled, zapped him with lightning a couple of times, and then deemed him bound for the dungeons. It was not like Mercer needed to fake the pain he was in but he did his best to appear even more miserable than he should be after the rough treatment.

This seemed to have the desired effect. The elves probably thought he was merely a foolish civilian who decided to attack them in a typical Nord fashion, that is without thinking it through.

So confident were they in their miscalculation in fact, that they didn’t even bother giving him over to the torturers or at least tacking away his clothes. Mercer’s “drunken” threats and loud boosts may have helped things along as well.

The master thief waited for the guard to walk away and pulled a lockpick from a hidden pocket on the inside of his tunick. There was no point in wasting the skeleton key on the cell door, not when the front gate was sure to be looked and he would have only precious few seconds of invisibility for him to open it.

Invisible he snuck out, making a few quick stops in the shadows to recast his spell. When he reached the main gate his breath caught in his throat. In front of him was the reason why the Thalmor had been able to keep the populace in check with so few soldiers.

The corpses of the guards were stacked in a heap in front of the gate. The stench was overwhelming. Worse yet the civilians were all in chains, guarded by at least ten mages, and forced to look at the routing pile of flesh before them.

Thinking quickly Mercer retreated in the shadows and tried to come up with another plan. There was no way he could shift the dead bodies to find the gate’s lock. The Thalmor would kill their captives at the first sight of trouble and he was that trouble.

How does one steal the lives of so many civilians from ten mages? Not lives, Mercer thought to himself, he needed to think of them as objects. To detach himself from the entire situation.

The damned Thalmor has always been bad for business, but this was hitting a new low even for them. There was no way they wouldn’t notice an army coming from the sewers. The Imperials might have pulled it off, but the Stormcloacks lacked the discipline needed. Normally he would retreat from a job so dangerous but this time the reward was too tempting to pass up.

What would the Dragonborn do in such a situation? Probably start hurling Destruction magic around. But if he had the time to calm himself down, to think, then he might have sneaked and slit the offending Thalmor’s throats. Mercer wasn’t an assassin, and so far there were no rumors of the Dragonborn being one either, so maybe not.

Maybe he would have cast an illusion and pitted the Thalmor guards against each other? Mercer could do that, his knowledge in the school of Illusion nothing to scoff at. As red light enveloped his hand he prayed to Nocturnal that it would work, for he had only one shot at this.

The light hit one of the agents and for a second nothing happened. But as Mercer was just about to give up the elf charged a chain lightning spell and zapped his companions with it.

Seeing that he would have no other chance, Mercer began trowing more and more Fury spells around until the courtyards descended into complete chaos. Overcoming the fear that they felt thanks to the spell, the townsfolk started battling their captors.

Without looking back Mercer ran straight to the pile of corpses blocking the gate. Some of the Thalmor shock off the spell as he reached it, years of training their minds and bodies paying off. They shouted after him but the townspeople blocked their way to him, now fighting out of pure fear for their lives.

Mercer heard a child’s cry as he began climbing the pile. Without feeling remorse or even looking back he started to kick the lifeless lumps to the side. A woman’s battle cry was stopped halfway by a lightning spell but Mercer kept kicking and pushing. Finally, he saw the keyhole. As quickly as he could he opened the gate using the skeleton key and then he blew the war horn Stormcloack had given him to signal the charge.

Within minutes the thief heard war cries coming from the marshes. That was when he finally let himself turn back. He knew he would regret this later, but he did it anyway.

“People of Solitude to me! Stop fighting and run towards me! Run outside of the city!”

Those that could ran to him and he led them. Pursued by the Talmor up until the Stormcloacks reached the fleeing party. Mercer led the civilians to the docks, far away from the fighting.

Hours later after Stormcloack had assed the damage done, the Jarl and her steward had died during his Fury induced rebellion, along with an elderly merchant and a small child, tramped by the fleeing townsfolk.

Mercer allowed himself to think of them as people again. This was his fault. Sure most people would have bundled it worse than him, the Dragonborn and Ulfric Stormcloak among them, but the knowledge didn’t help his conscious any.

Sure, he had done worse things. Betrayed people he cared about and he knew he was a right bastard for bringing Nocturnal’s curse upon his guild.

In the face of Death, necessary or otherwise, he had always felt something. Nothing as strong as regret, but he knew with a certainty he would have nightmares of this job for quite some time regardless.

After everything was said and done he took the Jagged Crown from a reluctantly grateful Jarl, thanked said man for not trying to double-cross him now that he had an army at his back, and headed home to the Ratway and his guild.


	10. Sunshine in a bag

It wasn’t until the news of the retaking of Solitude had reached the Collage that Ancano approached Lysander again. He felt pity for the boy, for that was what he was. Only twenty years of age. Compared to his own age the Dragonborn was practically a toddler.

The Breton looked like a mess. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair a permanent mess of curls. So there was more to this “Dragon soul” than it met the eye if Lysander could still fight the potion’s workings.

“You haven’t been following orders, have you? You were supposed to rest and study and now look at you!”

His reprimanding the boy was mostly ignored. Ancano knew he could pull rank and force the Dragonborn to listen to him and yet he stilled himself. There was no need to harm a fellow Thalmor agent. He was sure Lysander will come around eventually. They always did.

“You have new orders. Stormcloak has been seen heading towards the Collage. You are to use any means necessary to find out how he managed to recapture Solitude. If he had any inside help you are to report it to me and I will deal with it accordingly.”

“I understand” came a quiet reply.

Ancano let out a sight. He himself hadn’t been given the potion in a long time. There was no point now that he had to spend centuries blooding his hands for the Thalmor. Had adopted their beliefs. But the Breton in front of him took it every day. Unable to say no he did so obediently, most times. Some times Ancano had to be trickier and mix it in the Snowberry tea Lysander drank at every meal.

It shouldn’t have to be like this. Normally all it took was a sip and the drinker of the potion was the First Thalmor’s creature, that was what had taken for him. Yet the Dragonborn kept resisting. That was the reason behind the man’s headaches.

“You should best wait for him at the tavern. Should Jarl Ulfric see me he will try and attack me. Do not mention me and if he does ask about me say I am just an adviser and neutral in this conflict.”

“You mean the skirmishes near Falkreath?”

Lysander asked suddenly. There it was again, an attempt for resistance to the potion. The protocol dictated the commanding officer always finish speaking and that there were to be no questioning his orders. For them to be treated as if they had come from the First Thalmor herself.

He had made Lysander memorize all the rules, yet he still didn’t follow even half of them. Treating Ancano as an equal rather than a higher ranking agent. The reward for that being a wince, another headache, a reward for the boy’s insolence.

“Yes, them. Now head down to the town and ask to perform for the tavern. You always look happier when you sing. And do something about that bird’s nest you call hair!”

The something the Breton did was putting his favorite fine hat, a blue one with a feather of all things, on top of his head and combing some of his curls in it with his fingers.

Ancano shook his head. If the boy wanted to keep kicking like a stubborn mule then he would let him. It wasn’t his job to prevent the fool from the self-harm he was inflicting.

“If he wants for you to go to your house in Windhelm you are to say no. We have our hands full with your so-called “brothers”, we don’t need you wreaking havoc, do we?”

“No, sir.” Came the quick reply. So the boy could learn.

Lysander changed from his mage robes into his fine clothes. He felt slightly better, a part of him was telling him that was how he was supposed to look like. A bard in finery ready to entertain the locals. That was harmless, fun and his true calling. He should have remained a bard and never bothered with being a mercenary.

The book from the Synod did say that the Altmeri Dragonborn before him had also been a bard. Maybe that was what all Dragonborns should be. Peacefull and caring about the way of the voice, respectful of Kyne and their true father- Akatosh.

His head felt like splitting again. A simple bard that couldn’t fight for the Dominion was useless. To squander the blessing of a Divine like this was a failure for the cause. He was not allowed to do it. He was to keep fighting the good fight, no matter the cost. Not resting until all Tamriel bowed to the Altmer.

Lysander stopped to calm himself and smiled. It just wouldn’t do for anyone to notice that something was amiss. He made his way to the tavern, ignoring the calls he received by the guards. He recognized some of them. He had enchanted and sharpened their weapons for them, done it for free even. If he didn’t turn around and apologize to at least one of them then they would think him strange.

That was against his orders. Apart from him wanted for the pain in his head to stop. He made to turn around and do as he should when he suddenly stopped himself and continued on his way towards the tavern, the headache increasing with every ignored greeting.

He entered the tavern at last and went straight to Dagur.

“I want to perform here.” He said with his most convincing smile and wondered why he was following orders now and rebelled before. The clarity, the result of his obedience, started to fade into pain again.

“Are you sure you can do that now, lad? You look a bit under the weather, is all.”

Dagur was a kind person, that much Lysander knew. He knew that in this line of work the man had to be. Ale got sold better when there was a sympathetic ear for one to unload his worries. He thought for a split second that he should tell him everything and then thought better of it.

Nord or no he didn’t want this friendly barkeeper mixed into his troubles. Except if he died there would be one less Nord to populate their lands. Maybe he should… _no_ , a part of him said. And so he kept his silence.

“Come now Dagur, you know I travel a lot. This is a simple cold and there are no shrines around here. You don’t think I should waste a health potion on it, do you?”

Dagur shook his head.

“I suppose you’re right. Well if your voice is up to it I have nothing against you brightening the place a little, friend!”

Lysander smiled again at Dagur and started to sing. He began with a Breton jig, taught to him by his father. Then his favorite Kahjiity lute songs, which were all he knew. He had always liked the cat folk. Something his newfound loyalty to the Dominion actually approved of.

The clarity replaced the pain as he hmed along with the song much to Haran’s pleasure. He finished off his performance with the instrumental version of the ancient nordic tune of the “Dragonborn comes”. There was still no Ulfric coming to take him away. It wasn’t his fault.

Perhaps he could help Nelacar with one of his experiments for the remainder of the night? Or maybe get some rest, it had been weeks since his mind was so clear and devoid of pain. With that thought in mind, he allowed Dagur to lead him to the room they kept for traveling bards. Thanking the man he laid down and pretended the matress wasn’t indeed a bedrow.

The next morning he awoke with Ulfric sleeping next to his bed in a chair. The blond snored lightly. Lysander had found it amusing during their honeymoon and the following days of travel. Had called the Nord his big bear. When they had pleasant conversations that is, so all five times in total.

He was surprised that the clarity didn’t leave him at the happy memorize. What was allowed and what was forbidden to him then? Could he tell Ulfric of what happened? The pain gave him his answer. He could surely tip him off somehow. At least he wasn’t having the urge to kill the Nord, he didn’t know he would do it if that happened. If he could endure the headache until Ulfric ran away from him.

Lysander raised his hand and patted Ulfric’s hair fondly. The old war bear startled immediately and made to throw off the offending hand when he realized just to whom it belonged to.

“Hey.”

Smiled Lysander up at him.

“Why didn’t you wake me once you arrived, hm?”

Ulfric returned the smile.

“You actually looked peaceful for once. That and the tavern owner told me you had a cold and looked as if you haven’t slept well in a while.”

Something within Lysander’s sleepy mind told him it was as good time as any to try and get some information.

“So how have you been, my grumpy bear, hm? And why haven’t you told me you have been waging war with my brothers as your souldiers?”

Ulfric gulped. Winterhold had been so remote in his mind that he had hoped the news wouldn’t reach Lysander. The townsfolk couldn’t have told him, as they looked far too calm to know of war. Then again they had looked like this back during the rebellion, trusting in the Collage and its mages to protect them.

“You have plenty to explain yourself. I received a note from the Thalmor saying they had you. Now here you are, not a single scar on your skin and looking as if last night's sleep was the most you’ve received in a year.”

Lysander’s hand traveled from Ulfric’s head to the edges of the man’s cloak. The very same he had made and enchanted for him. Without warning, he grasped it and pulled Ulfric closer to him. He had always liked whispering in Ulfric’s ear and now he had a mission to complete.

A part of him tried to remind him that the guest room didn’t even have a door, but he squashed the headache like a particularly nasty bug. He needed clarity now more than ever.

“Would you have liked to find me all chained up in a dungeon in Solitude, hm? Bleeding and oh so grateful for your rescue?”

As he finished he pushed his frowning husband away and laughed.

“Well, you are most certainly well, if you are making such jests!”

“Don’t be like that, my big bear. Come lay next to me. I’m not happy they tried to use your worry for me to get you to do something stupid. I am glad that you are well, that we are both well. Come, tell me about your glorious victory against the witch elves.”

The Jarl stood up from his chair and examined his lover on the bed. The man was calm, he was almost never calm. There were no scars on the outside that he could see but there was something wrong.

Lysander hadn’t even asked or went to see Sofie during the time between his supposed abduction and now. The Nord could understand being given the cold shoulder, had been the recipient of it for so many times he stopped carrying and learned to ignore it. But the small girl was the apple of her Papa’s eye.

In any other conversation Lysander would have at least mentioned her but now nothing. And how in the divine’s name had he found out about Solitude? Something was truly not well here. Deciding to play along, for now, he layed on the bed and allowed Lysander to nuzzle his face in his chest.

“You have Alduin to thank for that. He broke the main gate and my men charged. It was all so sudden that the damned witch elves didn’t know what happened. There were some casualties, but all in all, things went well.”

Lysander hmed and hugged Ulfric even tighter. He had thought the Nord would notice something. He hadn’t even tried to argue too much with him. Had done what the clarity had demanded of him. But the Nord did not.

Was it because he was finally behaving as Ulfric wanted him to? A loving, simpering thing that would bend over at a glance? He almost wanted to shake the Nord. Now that his mission was done there was no telling what his next might be.

“Will you come back to Windhelm, Lys, or are you going to study some more?”

Lysander buried his face even further into Ulfric’s chest. He had married a fool, a blind one at that. If his headache wasn’t threatening to split his head in half he would be screaming at him now. Now that the mission was completed there was only one logical solution, he was going to have to go back to Ancano and report.

“No, the air here agrees with me. And I am in the middle of an experiment to transmit diseases right now. I can’t conduct it outside of the Collage, it's too risky. Give Sofie my love and a good allowance.” He said and showed Ulfric a fat coin purse.

Hours past and they just layed together, talking about nonsense. If there wasn’t a sense of wrongness Ulfric would have even thought it pleasant. The peace between them was broken by Lysander saying he needed to go check on his lab skeever now or the poor thing was going to repaint the inside of its cage with its guts.

Lysander stood up and left. Right outside the tavern was perched no other than Alduin himself. Without warning the great beast shouted GOL-HAH-DOV and Lysander’s headache was replaced with bliss instead. He giggled, the report for the mission could wait, his brother needed him now to do…what?

“What are your orders, Zaymah?”

“Get on my back, baby brother. We are leaving for Skuldafn. You will be sitting out this war there.”

And wasn’t that strange? His brother had wanted to fight alongside him during the Civil War and now he wanted him to sit still in a temple? And what of Ulfric? The man looked guilty standing behind him. As if he had planned it. Perhaps his big bear wasn’t such a fool after all.


	11. Tea party

He was in chains yet again. For someone who was supposed to be a legendary Dragon killer, he found himself in them a lot these days.

Perhaps there was something to Ulfric’s insistence to learn how to fight without magic. Not that it would have helped in this case, his brother using a shout at point-blank and all.

His head was hurting him again, but he tried to ignore it. It wasn’t his fault he got carried away to a place he was almost sure wasn’t even in Skyrim. If it had been up to him he would have reported already. His poor lab skeever must have died by now too. And it had been so hard getting his hands on one.

The flight on Alduin’s back had been amazing. The shout’s power overcoming the potion’s effect with such ease that he was able to enjoy it. Once they landed a Dragon Priest had chains waiting for him. As per his brother’s instructions, he sat calmly and waited.

And here he was, chained to a chair, a table loaded with food right in front of him. Not knowing where he was, except that it was on a very high mountain pick and that even if he were to escape the chains and cast Drop Zones as fast as he could he would still end up as mincemeat at the bottom.

Trying to talk with the Dragon Priest had been a fruitless endeavor. He just didn’t know enough of the Dragon tongue to hold a conversation.

Apart from the headache, he had nothing to amuse himself with. Alduin had asked him many questions. Lysander was forced to answer all of them.

His brother had raged when he found out about the potion. It was nice in a way, the Dragonborn could scarcely remember the last time someone was angry on his behalf. What wasn’t nice was that Alduin had taken one wif of him and declared he was going to have to wait out the effect of the potion in this strange place.

Lysander had even told him the side effects, but the Dragon had just told him to bear with them and wait it out. Had the Dragon known he was leaving his brother to hallucinations perhaps he would have shown some sympathy. As things stood he was too busy “Killing witch elves and protecting the borders of this cold, ungrateful land, to be a babysitter.”

The Breton chuckled as he remembered the great beast’s parting words. Alduin would have been a terrible babysitter, not only would he have sat on the baby, he would have eaten the poor thing’s toys too.

Now, to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t exactly alone. Or maybe he was? He wasn’t certain if the images of Sheogorath and Sanguine were real or not. Or if the elegant lady in purple sipping snowberry tea was indeed Vaermina.

But he was almost sure that there was no way for Mehrunes Dagon to look so civilized eating an apple pie. The Daedric princes ignored him, acting as if this was a private gathering and he was the one encroaching.

What was strange was that they were swapping stories of none other than himself.

“And then he told me Silus had done nothing to him and he was going to spare him. Can you believe the gal of the mortal?”

Dagon had cut a small piece of the pie and brought it to his mouth. Lysander’s hands began to twitch. That was a murder he had regretted. Because that was what it was. It didn’t matter he had tried to use a calm spell on the Imperial, nor that he had used the only ice spell he knew to try and knock him out.

He had miscalculated, forgot to stop the spell or maybe he had simply become angry with the other man. It didn’t change the fact he had taken the razor for himself afterward.

“And after that, he raided my temple! He killed my priests within and desecrated their corpses. He even ate one of their hearts right at my altar! I hope it gave him indigestion.”

If there wasn’t a muzzle on his mouth Lysander would have told the Daedric prince that the heart hadn’t given him indigestion and was indeed very tasty, but he did, and so he remained quiet as the otherworldly being continued his rant.

“How is one to get himself a champion if the only likely candidate does such foolish things right after being chosen?”

“That's nothing-” It was Varmina’s turn to nag. “He flat out refused my offer. Allowed the traitor Casimir to keep his life and didn’t even voice his refusal! Not a word! But I got him back…”

Dagon snorted between mouthfuls.

“Sure you did, just like I did. Did he get offended from you doing nothing?”

“Yes I did-” responded Vaermina indignant “- I used his own soul’s power to create a pendant that had three enchantments. Once he dies the pendant will return to my realm and I will have another artifact to lure mortals with!”

Well, Lysander hadn’t seen it like that. That pendant was around his neck even now. Was he going to give it up, though? No. Destroy it if he was close to dying? Again no.

The Skull of Corruption was a much better reward and he hadn’t been tempted. The pendant was created as much by him as Vaermina. Besides if he could say no to a Daedra he was sure some adventurer after his death could do the same.

“You are all doing it wrong. The lad is a perfectly fine champion. I might write it in my will that he inherits my title. I will need to adopt him into the family first. If only I could remember my last name. The boy doesn’t have one, I’d like to give him mine but in my old age I seemed to have forgotten it.”

Now Lysander felt pity. Real or no Sheogorath had been a hero once. On the side of the Empire back when it had been proud and strong. And then he had inherited his “family title” and turned into the Daedric prince of madness. Even if this Sheogorath wasn’t real, even if he was merely suffering from withdrawal, he couldn’t help but hope the real Old Sheo wasn’t considering turning Lysander into another him.

“I gave him my staff, he took it readily enough. And he comes every night to visit me and eat tarts. It's good having such a dutiful grandson.”

Grandson? Did the real Sheogorath think of him as a grandson? If he was sleaping into madness so rapidly as to need to spend his dreams in the company of the personification of madness what did that tell him about himself?

He noticed in the corner of his eye how Sanguine nodded along.

“The boy needs to have some fun and you two just send him to murder and murder some more! That's no fun! He kept the rose I gave him because I showed him a good time. Sure he didn’t remember any of it, but he kept my rose. He even married one of his bedfellows from that night. Why I feel like a matchmaker!”

The tips of Lysander’s ears turned red. The night to remember had ended up with him in Ulfric’s bed, the Nord exhausted and him feeling a little bit of pain in his lower regions. The pleasant kind.

He had sneaked out and tried to forget about the whole debacle only to be reminded when he got accused of stealing a goat. As it turned out it hadn’t been an accusation at all but an undisputed fact. It was how he met Erik, his truest and most loyal friend, and so he wasn’t too mad at Sanguine when he had finally found the Daedra. Hagraven almost bride or no.

“And even if he hadn’t, what of it?” Continued the Daedra. “It's the memorize that count. It's not like he will live long enough to become a successful champion anyway. With how he courts danger.”

And that was the truth of it. His life was is and will always be brutal. More than likely short too. It was why he had wanted a family so soon after the Rebellion had ended. It was why he spoiled Sofie and married without thinking. Just like the Nords did.

Listening to the Daedra speak he was now certain they weren’t real. What did that mean for him, if he was seeing demons in his darkest hours? No, all of this was an illusion and he needed to dispel it. The real Daedric princes would have mocked him. They wouldn’t have just spoken about him like he wasn’t there.

Closing his eyes he willed himself to think about anything else but his current predicament. To think about the important things, like the Dominion. Except he didn’t give a snowberry for the Dominion, not really.

His head was pounding again but was that even real pain, or was it just a specter. He started counting in his head. The voices of the Daedra fading around him. Once he opened his eyes there was a ghostly apparition in front of him.

It was glaring at him as if he was the one who murdered it in the first place. It was an aldmeri Justicar, or at least it wore the armor of one. The robes it wore were tattered and Lysander couldn’t for the life of him figure out its gender.

“Do you see me or are you an illusion as well?”

“I do see you, damned human.”

Happy to finally have some company in his delusions Lysander chuckled.

“And what pray tell are you doing here? I don’t recognize you so I couldn’t have killed you. Or maybe I did, sorry about that if I forgot.”

The altmer frowned even further.

“You were supposed to be my second life.”

It stated.

“Now instead you are devouring me, just like you did with the agents before me.”

Lysander stopped and stared for a while. Now, what was the Altmer talking about? He was no cannibal! And he didn’t recognize the face in front of him.

Uncaring for a reply the mer continued talking.

“All those potions you drank. All the crushed black soul gems withing them and you never notice a thing, did you?”

Now that was a new thing. Lysander remembered the potion. Pretended he didn’t notice it polluting his favorite tea every morning for the past couple of weeks. But crushed soul gems?

Were there some in it or did his deluded mind played yet another trick on him? He was uncertain of what to do. This felt more real than the Daedra. There was a missing piece of a puzzle he never even knew of sitting right in front of him.

“No, I suppose I did not. Care to explain?”

“I shouldn’t.”

The apparition looked between angry and guilty. Lysander tried to say something to nudge it further into a guilty state of mind when it continued of his own accord.

“But the Dominion doesn’t care about me, you, or anyone but _her_. I am not going to see the afterlife, being stuck into a soul eater. I might as well tell you all that I know.”

The ghost cleared his throat and began to speak, growing quieter and quieter with each passing word.

“The potion you drank was no ordinary potion. To bend the will of another you need to use someone else’s greater will. When Thalmor agents become unfit for duty they are killed and their souls are stored in soul gems. Then the soul gems are crushed and mixed, so no agent can manifest their own will. Then the dust of the mangled souls is mixed in with sleeping tree sap. _We_ believe you know the rest.”

As a matter of fact, Lysander did. He still remembered the rest of the ingredients. He had ingested a mix of souls? Had he really, or was it another lie his brain had concocted to explain his situation?

He suddenly raised his chained hand and brought it on the table with as much force as he could muster. He felt the pain as clearly as he should. Maybe this was real after all.

“So what now, ghost? Are you going to rattle your chains at me? Tell me how its all my fault you were created in the first place?”

The thing shook its head.

“Normally I would follow orders. Live life through you and keep you as a loyal servant to the Thalmor. But you, you are different. You devour souls, had started to devour me. It takes a potion a day to add new pieces to me and the more of these potions you drink the less of me remains until another creature is born in my place.”

Lysander was thoughtful for a second. He supposed everything that could think of itself always thought of survival. Something told him he couldn’t negotiate with this thing. That its survival meant his death.

“If I am eating your soul. If you are indeed real. Then there is no medicine for what I am suffering, but there is a cure. I will wait until I digest you and then search out the white-skinned Thalmor that did this to me.”

“Suffering?” Questioned the spirit. “You don’t know true suffering but I will teach it to you. I might not survive, but you will never be the same, Dragonborn.”

With these words, the pain in Lysander’s head increased tenfold and he slumped in his chair, unconscious.


	12. The first Thalmor

Nightcaller temple was not what she was used to, far from it. The place looked like it was falling apart. A shrine of Mara was built in the atrium, which amused her greatly.

It hadn’t been her first choice, but now that she had to hide there was no better place. Liberated from the Dragonborn the tower would remain unchecked. Now that the priest that stayed within it lay cold on the ground there was nobody to disturb her.

She hadn’t brought any of her songbirds with her. No matter how much the Dragonborn had sworn to the townsfolk that the place was not dangerous a pack of Thalmor agents would attract unnecessary attention to her, and she couldn’t have that if her mission was to be a success.

The very same mission that she gave herself when her people were captured and made slaves to their false friends, the Dwemer. It had been almost a millennia, yet she was still as angry as the day she uncovered the treachery.

Her people, the ones who had ruled Skyrim long before it was Skyrim, her proud family, used for harvesting soul gems. Blinded so they could do manual labor. Their history robbed of them. Their true name, forgotten. Forced to claim the caves of the land which had been theirs, the land whose sky they had forgotten the sight of.

She wanted to rave and break something right now. Instead, she moved further into the temple until she found the place where the Skull of Corruption once resided. The snow elf knelled on the altar and prayed to Vaermina.

Not for the first time and just as before her calls to the Daedra were ignored. With a huff, she stood up and walked back to the residential area. Only Hermaeus Mora had ever given her anything and it hadn’t been for free.

Because of her deal, most of the knowledge of her people’s magic was gone now. Taken straight from her mind, to be guarded jealously in Oblivion. She still felt the emptiness it had left her with. But for it, she had received the knowledge of the potion and her freedom from the Dwemer.

It had been difficult, at first. She didn’t have all that many soul gems for her to crush and sleeping tree sap is rare now when it had been practically nonexistent before.

She had gone to Alinor, where the elves still hated the humans for their stolen immortality. They had taken her in, thought her magick and for some time she thought she could live in peace. Especially after she heard that the Dwemer had up and left Tamriel altogether.

She had thought she could remind her people of what they had lost. Maybe even get the humans to allow them to settle the cold barren lands in the north of Skyrim. But she had no such luck.

Her people weren’t her people anymore. No, they were beasts, _Falmer_ , not snow elves. They had chased her away, using a language she did not understand. They had human captives, they were blind and worse of all they had been herded like cattle for so long their souls didn't even require a black soul gem anymore.

From then on she had vowed to avenge them and let these beasts avenge her people in the way they attacked every human they saw. That was when she started making Bards disappear and reappear. At first, she hadn’t cared if they were mer or not, but now she rarely made anyone but altmers her servants.

Ungrateful for the hospitality their ancestors had given her, she knew, but it had to be done. Slowly the Thalmor had begun to blossom under her rule. Her operatives all masters of Speechcraft, their wills so easily broken, their loyalty unquestionable.

And then another Dragonborn had to stand between her and her vengeance. But this one was a clawless bard, knowing only magic and having no true way to protect himself. She sat down on one of the beds and drank an entire bottle of sleeping tree sap mixed with powdered soul gems.

Ancano had reported to her that the boy was missing. She did not like that at all. She had not liked wasting so many potions on the Breton and she hadn’t liked him just leaving either.

The man was infuriating in his insolence, his refusal to follow orders as long as the pain was bearable making her want to scream. She had half a mind to do away with him, but with the Worldeater on the louse, she needed for the Dragonborn to do his job and vanquish the dragon.

Except the man was refusing to do even that, demanding that Alduin was his brother and he didn’t want to kill any more members of his family than he already had to. That he already had.

With great distaste she forced herself not to trow up, the potion tasted vile going down but she needed to get to the Dragonborn. The woman closed her eyes and concentrated, searching among the many possible connections in her mind for the link to the Dragonborn.

When she did find him she was surprised. The Dragonborn's mind looked like a Thalmor prison. Had Lysander truly disobeyed her so severely he ended up in this situation? Hermaeus Mora had told her of the side effects. Of ghostly apparitions ready to make anyone pay for their disrespect. Mangled things filled with pain and regret, the culmination of all the soul pieces.

With raised brows, she made her way towards the sound of screaming. The Dragonborn was chained up on the wall and the creature was skinning him alive.

Up and within the knife went, with precision all of her bards learned, one that bled out into the apparitions. It didn’t mean that none of this was real, it didn’t matter that the Breton was perfectly fine on the outside. So well in fact that he didn’t even appear to be in pain for any guards left to watch him.

No, it was best for his minders to not be alerted. To see him gently smiling as he was tortured in truth.

“You were supposed to give him only headaches, creature.”

The thing stopped and turned around to stare at her. She thought for a split second it would turn on her, as some of his brethren had done before, but it only bared its teeth at her.

“He said he was going to devour me, and he will, you are too far away from him to give him another potion and his brother will never let you come close to this place. No, I will avenge myself!”

She narrowed her eyes at the thing. This creation of hers that had become as unruly as the Breton it was supposed to control. Maybe it was contagious, maybe she should have killed this Dragonborn just like she did the last one that was causing her trouble. Still, she was invested in this pathetic lump of flesh in front of her, she couldn’t let the man lose his mind. There were dragons to be killed.

“You are to stop this right now. I want him coherent enough to finish the dragons off. You will do as I tell you or I will take your place myself.”

And it would have to be her controlling the dragon in front of her, wouldn’t it? Her soul was ancient and immortal. Her vessel looked old and frail. To take the creature’s placement, to pull the strings herself. Something she had never done before. But if she could overthrow Alduin, if she could crown this boy before her as the dragon’s new ruler, she could finally rain fire on this land and cleanse it.

The creature snarled, figuring out that what she said was no threat, but a promise. With a flick of her finger, it began to fade away. Seeing this it became even more enraged, snarling and lunging for her, bloody knife in hand. It stopped, doubled over and turned into dust at her feet.

Now that there was no competition for the young man’s soul she thought about how she was going to convince Lysander to do as she says. Pain and more of the potion was out of the question.

It hadn’t worked and it was squandering of recourses. She needed to know what he feared. Then she saw it, the very illusion the creature had put him into right before it decided to resort to good old torture. A beautiful woman dressed all in purple, sipping snowberry tea.

The real Vaermina hadn’t answered her calls but this make-belief version of her would serve her purpose. The snow elf witch concentrated and when she opened her eyes she was the woman from the dream. With a sly smile, she approached the sobbing Lysander. Grabbing his chin she forced him to look at her and smiled.

“Have you been having sweet dreams, Dragonborn?”

The man didn’t answer her. With another flick of her finger, the wounds on the man healed, not even leaving a scar behind.

She knew it would have been more worrying for the man if he did have scars. If he questioned whenever he knew what reality was or not. She needed him to be just on the brink of madness, not for him to leap off the edge entirely. She was abandoning her own body for this. All her power, all her magic. Gone, so she could play the biggest mind trick of all.

“Will you refuse me, when I ask you to be my champion next time, hm?”

“Always.” Came the quiet reply.

“Well, we’ll see how well you fare after every single one of your dreams is just like this one. I’ll let you go for now, but next time I ask something of you, you better not disappoint. ”

With that, she let go of the link connecting her to her own body. _With this, she died_. And allowed the Dragonborn back into the world of the living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With that part one, the Thalmor plot, is done. I hope those of you who read this story had as much fun as me writing it!


	13. The resolve

Alduin was worried. More than that he was at his wit's end. He hadn’t thought it possible for him to develop any type of feelings for the Dragonborn of this age, much less brotherly. His brothers had scales and were free to rule the skies. His brothers bowed to no man or mer, they barely bowed to him. Proud and unyielding.

Yet despite himself, he had thought himself to care. He still remembered the conversation that had started it all. Lysander asking him if they were both puppets of Akatosh, for him to decide his eldest and youngest were to enter a deathmatch together, only for one of them to remain alive afterward.

That had made Alduin stop and think. This wasn’t the first passing of an age he had witnessed. He had brought the ends of many worlds. When the Kalpa came to an end he could just feel it. He didn’t enjoy it. He had even tried resisting at first. Because the worlds were brimming with life and he had friends, followers, family to think of.

It hurt him every time to have to kill his Dragon brothers and carry their souls to a new world, repopulating it with them first. For them to rule over whatever life forms sprang from the soil or crawled out of the sea.

This is how Tamriel had begun, fed by the power of a different world. Ruled over by Dragons, humans becoming a part of their cults without question. Then he got send across time to meet his baby brother, a restoration mage who tried desperately to heal a burned woman at the human stronghold that he later found out was the town of Helgen.

Lysander had knitted her burned flesh together, held her hand as he repaired the damage in her lungs. He worked on her without paying attention to the danger to his life until his work was done. Then he had turned around to see him, a fellow dragon, perched on a tower.

The young mage had tried to shield the woman as best he could, but there was no way to keep her out of sight.

_“You watched my work, are you going to undo it now, beast?”_

Lysander had said back then. Alduin had felt the sudden surge to lecture the boy about him not being a beast. About how he could watch the human heal a thousand wounds and undo his work as many times as he wished because he was Alduin World Eater and the Kalpa was soon to be at an end and there were no spells strong enough to stop that.

Instead, he felt the human’s soul and stopped himself. It felt familiar. Had that slight aura all sons and daughters of Akatosh had. Recognizing the man as a Dragonborn had made him burn with anger.

His father had created many of those in this world, where he would create but a one in all the rest. Alduin knew his father liked this plane of existence. That he wanted his eldest defeated, his soul powering the world and prolonging the Kalpa.

In his anger, he had decided to say all that to the Dragonborn. He wanted the man to know why he was about to die. It felt important somehow as if he was owed at least that much. And then his brother had said it. Voiced the question that even now plagued him.

_“If you are so powerful, can’t you stop the end of the world yourself?”_

And Alduin wished that he could. Despite the betrayal, the humans had dealt him. Despite his brothers now being bones, their souls having to remained chained and in pain.

Because this Tamriel was a beautiful place. It had humans, mer, cat people and tiny images of his brothers and sisters who he could have sworn were his distant nephews and nieces.

So when Lysander swore to not fight him as long as Alduin didn’t try to eat the world, the great dragon believed him. This small human believed in him, in his power and his desire to see this world survive.

With time the Breton had turned from human to brother in his mind. To see him now, not seeing anything around him but smiling anyway was hard. He knew his brother had been fed something against his will. Some vile concoction that robbed him of it. He could smell it on him. The smell was getting weaker and weaker but Alduin couldn’t help but feel helpless.

By all accounts, he shouldn’t even be here. Hiding out in his temple. Out of sight and waiting for whatever had harmed his brother to appear so he could finally show it his wrath. But no such thing happened. No one approached his brother. Nothing oozed out of him. There was nothing for the dragon to fight.

No, the battle was in his brother’s mind. He alone had to fight. Suddenly he could see from the corner of his eye how his brother was trying to get the attention of the Dragon Priest again. The smell of the potion was all but gone.

Relieved the great Dragon flew away as silently as he could. His brother snapping out of it or not he wanted to leave him in the care of his once-loyal servants for a couple of more days. There was a war to be waged and he had picked the side of the humans. The side of his brother’s keeper.

Lysander looked around and noticed he was still chained. The table in front of him was still laden with foodstuffs. So that at least hadn’t been an illusion. With a sigh, he took out a lockpick from his pocket and began to work on his chained hands. Twenty lockpicks and a very amused Dragon Priest later and he was finally free to move around.

The priest tailed him, speaking to him in Dovahzul. He couldn’t make much of what was being said, except the words for “family” and “brother”. Still, he enjoyed the company. And wasn’t that something, to enjoy the company of something he usually killed without remorse?

After he made a few rounds around the temple he decided that jumping off, Drop Zone or Become Ethernal shout or no was not a good idea. He just had to wait for his brother to come to pick him up. When that was, he didn’t know, but something told him Alduin would come to him when the effects of the potion wear off completely.

And so Lysander used the opportunity to plan. There was a war waged around him, without his knowledge no less. The main force was made up of the Thalmor. Except now that he knew what he knew he couldn’t muster the same hate for them as he could before.

They had been like him. Better than him, even, if they were all simple bards and not mercenary before their run-in with the potion. To be stripped of their will like that and for there to be no consequences to the one responsible made his blood boil.

It had taken many potions for him to become like them. He wondered how many potions the average Thalmor had to ingest before their will was stolen from them. That was something he had to ask Ancano about when they meet next.

Now that he knew what he knew he couldn’t just leave them all to die in this war for some old hag that played around with alchemy. A part of him felt indignant at this, and that made him stop in his tracks. Why would he feel this way? It was probably the potion still in his system.

He finally decided to use the time in this temple to plan how to best free the Thalmor from their slavery. He may not be the best in alchemy but he did know what were the ingredients for the original potion. If he found a way to counter them, make the agents drink the new concoction, he was sure that the war would end much sooner than expected.

With that, he took out his mortar and pestle, his research journal a quill and an inkpot and began to work.


	14. The archer

Leaving his brother behind wasn’t ideal, but Alduin had an attack on the witch elves planned. It hadn’t taken him long to get back to the town of Falkreath.

The Jarl, Dengeir, had passed away from a very bad case of an arrow in the eye, courtesy of a Thalmor assassin. With no other choice, Ulfric had pardoned the former Jarl and restored him his seat.

The great Dragon had yet to see this Siddgeir, let alone talk to him. Today was the day he would judge him. If the rumors of him were true and he was as easily bought as people claimed he would not suffer such a fool as the Jarl of the borders.

His landing caused the usual uproar. Even as he protected them the people of Skyrim still didn’t trust him. They were afraid that he was going to turn on them and devour their souls as soon as he grew bored with the elves.

Alduin didn’t blame them. Had the elves not angered him as much as they have he might have done just that. No one harmed his kin without his say so and he only gave it if they chose to rebel against him.

Even Lysander, drugged as he was, had allowed the power of Alduin’s voice to reach him and had obeyed his older brother’s will. There had to be consequences for his abduction and he would deliver the punishment!

The new Jarl looked young and strangely unafraid of him, despite his status as a former supporter of elves. The man wore full heavy armor and had antlers on his helm. As Alduin landed Siddgeir was just finishing giving instructions to his troops.

“Once their battlemages are in sight you are to charge them immediately! Bash them with your shields, cut up their hands, if you can! Archers, I want to ignore the normal foot soldiers and aim for the battlemages! Aim for the head. Remember, the battlemages can turn a battle into a massacre! I want you all to be ready to kill them as quickly as possible.”

“Aye, Jarl” They all screamed in chorus.

Once that was done and only then did the Jarl of Falkreath turn his head towards the great Dragon.

“Hail, Alduin, bane of Kings. With what can I be of use this day?”

“I heard-” began Alduin slowly and menacingly “- that you once cozied up with the Thalmor and shared bread with them. Do you deny it?”

“I do not.” Admitted Siddgeir.

“I will, however, prove myself in battle. Show where my true loyalties lie.”

Alduin bared his teeth at that. He didn’t like people who would turn their cloaks so easily. There had to be more to this sudden change for Ulfric to trust this man.

“And where that may be, Jarl?”

The man turned fully at him and flashed him a bright smile.

“With your youngest brother, the Dragonborn. He would never support the Thalmor. Nor the conquering of Skyrim by anyone. And so I will fight beside you and the High King, in Lysander’s name.”

Alduin found it amusing. His brother in law had resorted in putting a rival back in power. The war wasn’t even going so badly with the help of the Dragons. Did Ulfric truly think he could betray his brother’s trust time and time again and his brother would simply forgive him and not return to better pastures?

“That is good enough for me. What have you planned for today, mortal.”

The Great Dragon also found amusing the expression on the man’s face as he was practically asked by a Dragon to be given an order. It always served well to gauge the mortal’s character by letting himself be ordered around. He had costed the lives of at least twenty of Ulfric’s officers who thought to pit him against the High King for their personal uses, all revealed through the tasks they tried to send him to.

“Today I am leading a charge on the elve’s supply wagons. I’ve been planning to ask a couple of your brothers to accompany me. I was hoping that I can find a message in the wagons referring to Lysander’s location. Or maybe Lysander himself in the prisoner's section. I received a letter from the Thalmor scum, saying they had him.”

The mortal hadn’t tried to get him to follow him on this mission, which spoke well in his favor. He wondered for a second if he shouldn’t tell the man that his baby brother was safe and sound. But men tend to fight better when something they wanted was at stake and proclaiming his loyalty directly to his brother hadn’t escaped Alduin’s notice.

“So be it. If you wish for me to accompany you just say the word, Jarl.”

Siddgeir did not need the help of the World Eater. He wasn’t even sure he needed the help of any dragons. He had truly thought to take a few with him but the tone of the great dragon unnerved him. It was almost like a test he would fail, should he ask the beasts for help.

It would defeat the purpose of why he had decided to join up with Stormcloack if he failed any tests. He couldn’t just allow for Lysander to be held in a Thalmor prison!

Sure, the man had joined up with his enemies and helped dethrone him but still the very thought of his once lover being scared and at the mercy of torturers made his blood boil.

He still owed the Dragonborn quite a bit. If it hadn’t been for him whispering in the rebel leader’s ear the heads of all of the Imperial Jarls might have rolled. His nearly had and it had taken Lysander casting a Calm spell at his execution and proclaiming loudly that he would stop fighting for the Stormcloacks if political “justice” was to take place.

Stormcloack had looked just like he was considering taking his war axe to Siddgeir’s head himself. For a split second, the Dragonborn’s hands glowed light blue again, as if he was going to hit the Jarl of Windhelm with a Calm spell as well and then Stormcloack relented.

Demanding Siddgeir and all his retainers leave before nightfall or it would be the headsman’s block for them. It was late afternoon and they had barely made it, carrying nothing but the clothes on their backs. Stormcloack was still smug about Siddgier’s retreat.

So smug that he had just strolled in the Blue Palace, taken the bottle of Ale Siddgeir was nursing, and ordered him to take his place as a Jarl again. To fight the Thalmor or be executed as a traitor.

Siddgeir had accepted. And then when the fighting was getting bloodiest he had received it. As if he needed more motivation to fight the elves who took so many of his soldiers to the grave.

The letter was more of a note. It simply stated that the Thalmor had the Dragonborn and they demanded the surrender of the humans least they started returning him to them limb by limb.

Since then he was always on the front lines. All of the archers were. He lead them, always told them where the battlemages were. His arrows finding their marks and slowly with each elf’s death the respect of his men started returning.

No, it wasn’t returning so much as it was now manifesting. Finally being deserved after he shamed them for so long, playing at being some noble hunter rather than taking his place as a warrior. A true Jarl. Siddgeir had no illusions about what he had been. A corrupt nobody willing to use everyone and who was lucky enough to have been born with good looks.

It was pure luck that the Dragonborn had come to him on one of Siddgeir’s good days. Just after a successful hunt. He remembered he hadn’t even bothered to dress the elk he had shot down, leaving that to his servants. Knowing that night he would have venison and the attention of a famous mercenary, he had smiled and shown his happiness to the newcomer.

A man like Lysander wasn’t used to being addressed so casually by an official and it showed. The man had blinked several times and had agreed to go all the way to the borders with the reach to clear some half-forgotten mine. He returned when Siddgeir was in one of his poor moods, however. The guards wanted their wages on time and he, fool that he was, wanted a new hunting hound.

Instead of being obvious about his displeasure to the mercenary he had decided to be cruel instead. He facked the same pleasantries as he expressed last time they met and paid the man what was owed to him. Instead of letting him be on his way he invited him to dinner, thinking that the man would make a fool of himself.

The Breton had done the opposite, acting on the table with much more grace than a mercenary had a right to. That served to make Siddgeir even more displeased. The man acted around him as if they were peers and that just couldn’t stand.

In a last-ditch attempt to force the mercenary to make a fool of himself the Jarl had asked him to sing him a song. And so Lysander had. It was in old Nordic, so Siddgeir had to remember his almost forgotten lessons about the ancient tongue to understand it. It was an ancient Atmoran ballad about the frost giant Ymir and how he created the old Atmoran animal Gods from his flesh.

It had been sung so beautifully that his housecarl had ended up clapping like a fool as if he was in a tavern rather than in a Jarl’s longhouse. Siddgeir himself was moved by the song. He had felt shamed back then. His anger had vanished during the performance and his clapping had been sincere.

One thing had led to another and the next thing he knew he was trusting his fine lute into the hands of the mercenary and pressuring him to sing them something else. He had ended up giving the Dragonborn the lute as a gift, knowing full well that he had kept it for his vanity and that it would see more use from then on.

Lysander had looked so happy to receive the instrument. Even admitting sheepishly that he had searched for one for a very long time but had no luck finding any. Instead of an angry mercenary being put in his place a friendship had started. One that had evolved into something more and might have led to marriage if only Siddgeir had been braver.

Now the one who would have made him happy was captured by the elves and, even if he wasn’t, there was still the fact that he now shared the bed of another man. Even if Siddgeir wanted to forget every time Jarl Ulfric would raise his right hand he could see it, the bond of matrimony.

Worse yet, the other Jarl didn’t even look half as worried as Siddgeir himself was. There were no angry shouts, no threats made out of grief. It was almost as if the big buffoon didn’t even care that his husband was a captive!

While Siddgeir himself wouldn’t be found too far away from the action the Jarl of Windhelm held court in Falkreath and took his sweet time to plan, just like he had done during the Civil War. He had even left them for a trip to Winterhold and had looked somewhat relieved after that.

Did Stormcloack expect to be made a widower so easily? Was he hoping for it? Well, Siddgeir wouldn’t stand for it. The days where he would pass his time hunting and drinking were over. He would rescue Lysander himself, even if he had to put an arrow through every Thalmor battlemage!

With this resolve, he headed towards his troops. No, there won’t be dragons roaring above the skies and giving their position away. The men of Falkreath will show their worth today and if they found Lysander or any news of him then all the better.

It was late afternoon as they finally sighted the wagon train. Siddgeir raised his hand to make his fellow archers hold. He needed to scout ahead for the battlemages first, as he always did. At first glance, he spotted five agents in the back and ten in front of the wagons. But the Thalmor had gotten smarter and started switching battlemage robes for light armor, forcing the worriers of Skyrim to guess.

It appeared Siddgeir’s hunting days had not been a complete waste. People walked differently when they wore robes from when they wore light armor and the Thalmor battlemages hadn’t had the time to train properly. With his keen eyes, he started noticing the telltale signs of people making too small steps, as if half expecting to step on the hem of a robe.

Nocking an arrow the Jarl gave the order to aim at the first two on the right of the front column and the last agent from the back. His arrow flew before the rest did, hitting the one in the back column straight in the eye. Just like as if he was an elk.

It helped thinking of the elves as if they were mindless animals. It turned the whole exercise into an extravagant hunt with an over-eager hunting party. Siddgeir liked to think it helped him sleep at night, but that was a lie. Nothing helped him with that these days.

By the time the elves figured what had happened their battlemages whittled in pain on the ground and some of their heavy heaters did the same. The second volley of the arrows took out the remaining survivors.

It had taken a lot of drilling for Siddgeir to teach his archers not to yell _“For Skyrim_ _!”_ when they were supposed to be sneaking, but it seems his lessons were paying off now. Sometimes one had to fight like a bandit and the Jarl had had enough dealings with scum to know how to behave like one.

The third volley was a precaution. All was quiet but they didn’t need any prisoners. More than one Thalmor had faked their death before and now that they were an easy target on the ground it didn’t hurt to put a couple of more wholes in them.

Once he was satisfied and the battle _(Hunt, think of it as a hunt)_ was over Siddgeir sneaked alone to the wagons. Ever cautious and not willing to risk the lives of his men. It was only right that they managed to flee should this be a trap. He might be ransomed or captured, his souldiers would be slaughtered on sight.

He searched throughout the corpses. He was not going to “dress” this kill either. No, what he searched for was a note, a parchment. Anything that can tell him where Lysander was, how he was if he was even still alive.

As luck would have it he found a piece of fine parchment on what looked to be the commanding officer of the detachment.

_The Dragonborn is gone._

_The matriarch is also gone, Dragonborn is suspected of killing her._

_Expecting orders,_

_A._

Now it suddenly all made sense. _The Dragonborn is gone._ Why would Stormcloack be worried if the Dragonborn wasn’t even in custody anymore? Why would the dragons resume their assistance if their brother was still in the clutches of their enemy?

They had played him like a fool. Using his emotions against him. Had Lysander knew about him being restored to the seat of a Jarl? Had he been the one… no.

The Breton was many things but he didn’t play with people like that. It was all Ulfric Stormcloack. Or maybe Siddgeir wasn’t deemed important enough to be told Lysander was safe and sound somewhere? And where in Oblivion was this _“somewhere”_?

Throwing caution to the wind he called his archers back down and marched them back to Falkreath. He didn’t even bother to take anything from the wagons or the corpses, nothing but the note that showed him just how little he was valued.

Without making them sneak around they all returned much sooner than normal. After a few quick words of congratulations, he dismissed them. It wouldn’t serve to lose the respect they had for him by throwing a tantrum. Not now when he finally felt like a true Jarl.

With determined steps, he walked to the command tend and threw the note on the map, right under Stormcloack’s nose. The man read it and sighed. Rubbing his nose he dismissed all of his generals.

“Where is he, how is he, when will he return?” Said Siddgeir as fast as he could.

“Safe, at his brother’s temple. As for when he would return, that depends on when the potion in his veins will stop affecting him.”

“I demand I be told this temple’s location so I can see him!”

Ulfric sighed again.

“Out of the question. You and your archers are needed here to intercept any wagon trains that try to supply the elve’s troops. You will see him when he is better. Now leave, Jarl Siddgeir.”

“I will not…” Began Siddgeir only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the look of pure murder the High King was giving him.

“The one you ask after-” began Ulfric calmly “-is my husband. Your High King’s consort. If you think even for a second that you are entitled to any more information about him than I then I will have no choice but to consider it treason and your usefulness will be deemed at an end. Have I made myself clear, Jarl?”

“Yes, my King.” Answered Siddgeir and stormed off.

If he couldn’t see Lysander then at least he could be calmer knowing the man was somewhat safe. How had he been passed over for the brute back in the tent was a mystery for him. Except, no it wasn’t. The brute had played the valiant freedom fighter up until the battle of Falkreath.

And after that, he had been forced to be fair to the losing side by his consort. Perhaps that was why there was no love between them. They had married for power and Siddgeir could find nothing but pity for them both.


	15. Mind of Madness

Lysander added a bit of creep cluster to his concoction. It sizzled and turned a bad green color. He sighed and drank it, waiting for something to change. When nothing did he went to the nearest dragon and pocked him.

“Do I still smell of the potion, brother?”

The dragon took one wif at him and nodded his head. This was all the confirmation that he needed to get back to work. Sure, the potion was going to get out of his system soon enough, but then what of the Thalmor agents? It just didn’t sit well with him to leave them behind.

They had done many terrible things, but they had done them under orders. Drugged and with no free will to speak of. If he managed to find an antidote and before the potion left his system surely the elves could be reasoned with?

His attempts so far had been a disaster. Nightshade extract mixed with powdered dragon’s tongue had given him stomach rot. The Deathbell had turned the entire base of the potion into a slow poison.

Different types of eyes, bear, sabrecat, mammoth, had given him brain rot. Fire Salts had caused the concoction to explode right in his face and he didn’t dare use Void Salts in case he got transported to Oblivion or something.

Just as he usually did when doing the research he wrote in his journal. He knew that the two main ingredients were Sleeping Tree Sap and crushed Soul gems. And the last part was true only if Vaermina hadn’t been the one behind his visions of the patchwork thing that had tortured him.

So if the soul could, theoretically, be forced together with other soul pieces and he could eat even human or rather mer, souls as was the case, then he needed to find why he could eat human souls.

Unfortunately for him, the only being who could respond to his question had left him to toughen up and deal with the potion’s effects himself. Alduin sure liked to do that, but he supposed that just being taken away from the Thalmor and further doses of the stuff were enough to be grateful for.

It could have been a lot worse. He could have gotten addicted to the potion. To the feeling of clarity as he obeyed his orders. Maybe even to the internal struggle for control. Lysander shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now was not the time to think about himself, he had an evil mind-control potion to reverse.

He bit his nail, as was his custom when he was on the verge of a great discovery. Apart from dragons the only reasonable beings who could eat humans, whether it was the flesh or the soul, were the Dremora.

If they could digest souls then he needed to see the contents and makeup of the stomach acid of one. But how to lure a Dremora, not some simple-minded Atronach, for some good old fashioned experimentation?

Even Sanguine’s rose didn’t work for him anymore after he had strapped a summoned Daedra to a chair to test the effects of his best Paralysis poison on them. A brand new mix that was supposed to slow down the heart’s blood pumping abilities as well as render the recipient useless.

The Dremora Lord had screamed in pain one second and dissolved into a puddle of goo the next. After that no matter what summoning rituals he did he got no answer. He didn’t understand what was the problem anyway.

According to the books on Daedra, he read the beings were incapable of dying, rather they were summoned back to Oblivion. Except he had to clean that Daedra from the floor before someone noticed the stench and tattled to Savos Aren. His colleagues were real killjoys when it comes to some harmless rule-breaking.

Now, if his potion had ended up killing the Dremora Lord then it also managed to destroy the thing’s soul. Otherwise, it would have returned to Oblivion. Excited that he was finally on to something he flipped through the journal in search of answers.

It had happened before he had joined the Stormcloacks but after his little joy ride with Uncle Sam. And it was on a Morndas. His colleagues were still sleeping off the ale they drank by the gallons during the weekend and couldn't stop him from his research.

After a few minutes, he found it.

_Daedra gooefying potion:_

_Human flesh_ _(minced)_

_Canis Root/Swamp fungal pod(use dried and powdered, respectively)_

_Briar heart(boil first and then remove the seeds, you need those for extra effect on slow poison)_

_Powdered Mammoth Tusk(trade a cow and some gold with the giants, get a cow from battle-born farm, the cheapest are there.)_

_Add in this order, remove from fire, turn it all into a porridge-like substance. Dump it all to be distilled. Get the juices. Figure out what to do with the paste later._

It was all well and good that he found what he was searching for but there was a slight problem. All of his special ingredients were back at the Collage. If he was to gather new ones he needed to go to the Reach and pray to Talos that the old Forsworn camps had repopulated.

He had always liked the Daedra worshipers there. He could get as much Human flesh and Briar hearts out of them as he liked. It was like shopping in a well-stocked pharmacy, except he was paying with a fireball to the face.

Then there was the other problem that the potion had disintegrated the Dremora. Eating through his veins and damaging the heart so much it had even shriveled up. So much so, that it was useless for the one potion of mend broken bones he tried to make for Ulfric. The fact that he had also planned to get him to get out of the Palace of Kings and it was just a precaution was a different matter altogether.

Lysander knew there was no getting out of the temple on anything else but Dragonback and yet he needed to get to the Reach. The Dragon who stood guard eyed him with great distrust as if he could notice that he was about to be used.

The Breton thought long and hard on how best to bribe the Dragon. He could let the beast eat the corpses he wouldn’t harvest from. And maybe step between a very annoyed Alduin and this brother of his afterward. Before he could so much as approach the other dragon, however, he flew away from him and perched so high Lysander was sure he couldn’t be able to reach him.

That was a smart dragon and Lysander wasn’t even sarcastic. Turning to the Dragon Priest he found the man, undead, thing laying himself back into his coffin and closing the lead on top of himself. Well, that just wasn’t fair. He could have used the thing to hover above ground!

With a heavy sigh, he admitted defeat and started to pack his things. He could barely feel the effect of the potion anymore. He would just have to resort to experiment on captured Thalmor. It was for their own good, it had nothing to do with his curiosity about the potion.

It wasn’t like he wanted to recreate it or something. It was barbaric and…oh who was he kidding not only would he recreate the damn potion but he was also going to dump it down the gullet of the damn hag who drugged him. See how she liked her concoction.

As he mindlessly stuffed things back into his knack sack his fingers brushed a familiar box. It was pure black and had a ribbon on it. It was the paste! He had disguised it as a gift to avoid suspicion. Thinking about it wasn’t going to help him. The distilled form of this had killed a Dremora, the paste might turn him into goo as well. Still, Lysander took out a spoon and began to eat.

It should have disturbed him greatly. He was, for better or for worse, eating mince human meat with poisonous spices. Instead, it cleared his head in an instant. He could even hear some sort of distant screaming but couldn’t for the life of him figure out where it was coming from. He sure wasn’t in any pain.

When he was done eating the Dragon flew by him and gave him a sniff.

“You no longer have the poison in your veins, Zaymah. I will go and tell Alduin of your recovery.”

And so the Dragonborn sat down and waited to be released back into the wild. A delightful trip to the Reach already in the planning.


	16. The Waiting

Lysander had to wait quite some time for his brother to arrive. He busied himself by bothering the Dragon Priest, who still refused to come out of his resting place. He wondered what he was going to do when he got back, apart from hunting in the Reach.

He also wondered if Ulfric could be bothered to come with him or not. It would be for the best if his husband didn’t know what he was planning. And he was still angry for being tricked the way he was. Sure, he was drugged and the dragon tongue had barely reached him, but he was sure he could have fought off a headache or two and went to this wonderful retreat quietly.

It was not like he wanted to fight Ulfric. The man could charge like a raging bull, despite his age. Lysander didn’t want to use any magic on him and he didn’t know the first thing about wielding a sword so there was no way to block the Nord. No way to block anyone, really.

Perhaps it would be for the best if he started taking swordsmanship lessons from someone. Maybe join the Companions and let them toughen him up. Or maybe he could actually learn the same way he had learned destruction magic.

Focusing, a purple light appeared around his hand. He might be shunned by the Dremora Lords now but the Atronachs still heeded his call. He released the spell and in front of him appeared a fire atrnonach. No better way to learn than to force oneself to actually fight, him being horrible at even the most basic of ice spells and all.

Rummaging through his pack he finally found two swords, forsworn ebony blades. He had kept them not because he had thought he needed to learn how to use them, but because they were works of art. Swinging them once then twice Lysander charged at the flame atronach.

Hours later Lysander could proudly say that while his swordsmanship hadn’t improved his dodging and healing time had. By nightfall, Alduin hadn’t shown up to retrieve him and so he simply laid down on his bedroll and hoped it wouldn’t rain.

The next few days passed much the same. Summon an atronach, attack it with swords that had no business outside of a viewing case, then dodge and heal. Now, if he really wanted to improve he needed someone who could use a sword but, since the dragon priest was still in hiding and had a staff anyway, that just wasn’t an option.

In the end, Alduin made him wait for a whole week. He was both happy and annoyed to see his brother at last. Without much of an exchange, Lysander climbed onto his brother’s back and let him fly him back to Falkreath.

Upon arriving he was immediately escorted to the command tent. What surprised him was that Siddgeir was there, planning a raid on the elves with Ulfric. Now that was new. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known Siddgeir had it in him.

One doesn’t become a Jarl if they couldn’t wage war. However the nobleman had barely escaped his execution not so long ago and now he was here, all warrior-like and with people actually listening to his advice.

He had many things he wanted to tell Siddgeir. Many things he wanted to yell at Ulfiric. Instead, he went and took the empty seat by his husband and remained quiet. The meeting proceeded as if he wasn’t there. No one asked for his input and no one looked his way.

Had getting abducted so easily erased the memorize of his prowers on the battlefield? Probably. He was a mage and that wasn’t very respected in the first place. To add insult to injuries they probably didn’t know if he was to be trusted now. He understood all that and thanked the Nords in his head for their quick dismissal.

If they thought him weak then they wouldn’t stop him from getting the alchemy ingredients he needed. Nor would they stop him from returning to the College of Winterhold and from curing Ancano and the rest of the Thalmor. If he was lucky and the paste didn’t end up killing them, that is.

A gentle hand broke him of his musings. Ulfric was looking at him strangely. As if he had been worried. Well, Lysander himself would have been worried if Ulfric was the one abducted and he didn’t feel much for the man.

“Lysander, are you feeling better?”

The Nord’s voice was indeed full of worry. That made the Dragonborn blink. Well, he had indeed cared, who would have thought?

“I’m fine. In fact, I was thinking of going to Reach for a couple of days. Visit my friends from an Orc stronghold not too far away.”

Ulfric was beginning to nod his agreement when Siddgeir interrupted.

“Bullshit, you are not going to visit any Orcs. Why do you want to go to that bandit ridden place for?”

The Breton smirked at Siddgeir. This was not going to be easy. If Siddgeir made Ulfric even slightly suspicious then he wouldn’t be allowed to go. And wasn’t that something? He used to be able to travel across all of Tamriel once and now he needed permission. Those jokes the guards used to tell him about the arrow in the knee maybe weren’t jokes at all but cold hard facts.

“What is it to you, Siddgeir?”

The Jarl looked like he was considering throwing another vace at his head. His aim was wicked back then and Lysander had barely dodged the blasted thing. Now, he wasn’t so sure he could do the same. What with Siddgeir actually becoming more muscular than he remembered, probably due to the war.

“It concerns everyone where you prance off to! You are a valuable hostage for the elves! Don’t you understand that, Dragonborn?”

A valuable hostage. That was what he had been reduced to. Lysander sighed, this was not going to be easy.

“I won’t get captured again, don’t worry. I’ll make sure no one can sneak up on me. Make an entire minefield worth of runes to guard me during my sleep. Are you two happy now?”

Siddgeir actually gripped a nearby goblet at that. Had it been up to him Lysander might be back in the temple amusing himself by bothering the Dragon Priest. It wasn’t though. Turning his attention to his husband he noticed how calm he looked in contrast to his former lover.

Ulfric looked resigned as if he knew that his intentions weren’t true. There were times when Lysander had wanted for Ulfric to feel more for him than pure obligation. This was not one of them. The Breton had a mission he needed to complete and he couldn’t allow anyone’s overacting to stand in his way.

“Do you wish me to come with you?”

Asked him Ulfric finally.

“You are not blood-kin. They will not welcome you. Neither of you.”

He added the last part as Siddgeir had been about to open his mouth. The man had told him he hated him last time they met. The Breton wondered if Siddgeir had been truly worried or if he was trying to spite him.

“Then no, Lysander. Postpone your visit until the end of the war. Perhaps by then, I could find a way to earn the Orc’s trust and accompany you.”

The Dragonborn was speechless. These two dared tell him to do…what? Sit around getting himself drunk in the tavern or play pretend at guarding the small town? Surely they wouldn’t be so petty as to lock him away? He’d rather go back to the temple, between drop zones and his shouting he could surely reach the base of it.

He didn’t want to show his frustration, truly. But this was getting a bit too much.

“I used to do as I pleased and neither of you ever tried to stop me. What changed now, I wonder? Never mind, I’m going now.”

Before he could stand from the chair Ulfric put both of his arms on the Breton’s shoulders and forced him back down. Said man looked in disbelief, first at Ulfric and then at Siddgeir.

“Oh, so when its something your Jarly asses can’t be bothered to do yourselves it's ok for me to risk my life. But when its something I want to do I have to raincheck it with you and wait for approval?”

Ulfric sighed again.

“Contrary to what you like to believe, dear, the world doesn’t revolve around you. I would have denied Siddgeir the same request if he was as vague as you are now. Either you trust us and tell us why you want to go to the Reach or you are not going.”

The two Jarls in front of him looked dead serious. Now it was his turn to sigh.

“The Thalmor were all drugged with the same thing I was and I think I found a cure for it. If you two just let me go to the Reach and gather the ingredients I need this war might be over sooner than you expect.”

The two Jarls shared a look before nodding at each other.

“YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE!”

They both screamed at the same time. And that was that. Lysander was going to have to just sneak out. Harder to do when both of them were sitting right outside the tent, guarding it. Now, this was just getting ridiculous! Ulfric, he could understand. They were married and he might have really been worried. But Siddgeir?

He entertained the thought of zapping one of them with a Fury spell. But they would never forgive him for it. It was funny, they wouldn’t even see it coming. The world at large thought that he was some sort of a hero when in reality he wasn’t. If he was a hero he would have done more than talking with Alduin. While it had worked out for the best he had had a backup plan for that. Namely to cross the border and never look back.

What people didn’t understand about him was that his conscience would rear its head from time to time and make him do the right thing. Like now, when it would be so easy to let the two Nords bloody the Thalmor rather than doing anything about it. That was why he needed to sneak out.

He waited for Ulfric to come inside the tent and lay to sleep. It didn’t happen. The two Jarls sat quietly in front of his tent and guarded him the whole night. For them to have reached an agreement so easily was unsettling.

The breakfast was a stern affair. It was obvious to everyone at the table that the three of them hadn’t slept a wink. The Nord generals looked uncertain between their High King, his consort and the battle-proven Jarl of Falkreath. Once again Lysander decided to keep his mouth shut. There was no point in goating the two busybodies to do something drastic or even bring Alduin into this.

After breakfast, everyone scrambled to get away and only the three of them remained site.Lysander knew they expected him to throw a tantrum or something equally as stupid, it was written all over their faces. Instead, he just stood up and went to the barracks.

If learning how to fight with a sword was what these stubborn Nords wanted of him then that was what he was about to do. Fortunately for him, the guard he approached for help wasn’t one of the condescending ones.

He ended up training until sundown. If Ulfric and Siddgeir wanted to keep throwing the lives of their people away then that was none of his business. He had told them the truth and they had stopped him from doing the right thing.

It was not until the first of Frostfall that his “arrow in the knee” decided to approach him about fighting in the war. Now, Lysander could have made it all difficult. Could have said that they haven’t needed his help for the past three months.

Three months during which only the guards didn’t ignore his existence, but instead he decided to agree. He had spent his time learning how to cut people up and he was going to use his newfound knowledge. Besides, if he were to get lost during the trip back it would hardly be his fault.


	17. Gathering thoughts

Lysander was running away as fast as he could. Casting the invisible spell on himself again he forced himself to keep going. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have told anyone where he was going. As it stood he had a very pissed off Jarl of Falkreath on his heals.

The problem was that he was being chased by a man who could turn him into a pincushion but held himself back. Siddgeir had gotten so good with the bow to the point where he could actually shoot arrows that were supposed to trip him.

Then there was the fact that Lysander could turn Siddgeir into an ash pile and instead he was starting forest fires to try and force the Jarl to head back and get the guards to doze them out.

And the day had started so well too. He was sent on a mission after he managed to hold his own with his dual blades against Ulfric for a whole ten minutes, after which he had ended up on his back seeing stars. He had been assigned to Siddgeir’s platoon of stealth archers. Which he thought was impractical since he wasn’t an archer.

Then they had found a platoon of Thalmor which they captured and killed. He hadn’t done much of the killing because he wasn’t a darn archer. Yet another thing the Nords were going to hold against him.

He did find some sleeping tree sap in the wagons. He had tried to get Siddgeir’s attention and explain to him that the Thalmor were going to enslave even more people but the Nord didn’t listen. And so he cast a Fury on Siddgeir and bolted.

Granted his former lover might not have needed the Fury to chase after him but he wanted for him to look like he was out of his mind, attacking the Dragonborn like that. That way he wouldn’t be barking any orders at the gawking guards and this wouldn’t have to turn into a massacre.

The Fury spell should have lost its effect a long time ago but Siddgeir kept on chasing him. Lysander had thought it ironic when they pass Bilegulch mine. The very first place Siddgeir had to send him to. How they had ended up near it was a mystery to him. Had the Jarl really made him zig-zag his way to the borders of his hold? Maybe he should stop casting Incendiary Flow in his wake, least the whole of Skyrim burned down.

He stopped to catch his breath just for a moment and suddenly he was tackled to the ground. The two of them rolled down a slope and ended up down on the ground. Lysander started laughing, his eyes teared up. This had been more of a hunt than a real escape attempt for the Nord. Siddgeir looked at him like Lysander had grown a second head. Then he punched him straight in the jaw.

Lysander still laughed. It was funny to watch Siddgeir trying to rein himself in instead of going for another punch. Sure, it hurt like hell, Nords weren’t known as muscular warrior race for nothing, still, the Breton found it funny.

He had made the Nord abounded his platoon behind enemy lines. He had used a spell on him that he had promised not to. He had cost him his seat of power, his home, and nearly his life. And here Siddgeir was, his lower lip quivering, his body shaking and his eyes full of unshed tears. The poor fool still cared for him, Lysander almost felt for him.

With slow deliberate movements, the Breton raised his upper body so he could be face to face with his would-be captor.

“I’m going further into the Reach and you are not going to stop me.”

Siddgeir looked like he was about to punch him again. The Nord knew that in a real fight he would be a corpse far too fast for his liking. He witnessed the way Lysander fought and that had been behind his sneak and fire at will strategy when it came to battlemages. Still, he didn’t want to let the man before him do something stupid.

“You are not. Any ingredients you need can be bought through alchemists. There is no need for you to go out by yourself.”

“I can cast Fear on you-” Lysander threatened”- and besides I doubt that many alchemists will deliver me the amoung of human flesh I need for the cure.”

Human flesh? The Dragonborn was messing around with Human flesh of all things? Had he always been so rotten? But then no one had tried to get to know Lysander better. No, they wanted their legendary savior and saviors didn’t cut people up to turn them into potions.

With a start, Siddgeir realized he didn’t know Lysander either, just the Dragonborn. He had thought it would bring him prestige to have him as a lover and it had. Up until the point Lysander gave him a nice pair of antlers with Ulfric Stormcloack of all people and joined the now High King’s cause against the Empire.

“I’m coming with you then.”

He would like to get to know Lysander better if only to be able to set aside his feelings for the man.

“You want to come and kill Forsworn with me? They have almost all of the ingredients I need for the paste.”

“Aye”

Lysander stared into the Jarl’s eyes looking for any sight of a trap. Siddgeir looked honest enough in his desire to accompany him.

“I will have to harvest the flesh myself. Wouldn’t that make you squeamish?”

“No, as long as you don’t eat any in front of me I think I can stomach you butchering people like animals.”

Lysander snorted at that. There were some things even he didn’t have the stomach for and one of these things was Namira and her little cult. Now nonexistent in Skyrim thanks to him feeling pity for a young priest of Arkay.

“No worries, I already took the antidote. I wouldn’t have to eat any human flesh. But, do you really want to come?”

Siddgeir just nodded at that.

“Well, do you mind getting off of me then? Or are you a bit lost in the good old times when this wouldn’t have been inappropriate?”

“There is one thing I want from you though. Don’t play games with me, Lysander. If you keep going like that I will leave you and tell your husband you deserted.”

Lysander just couldn’t help it. He had an arrow in the knee all right, it just was that he had one in each knee. He raised his hand and gently patted Siddgeir on the shoulder.

“On my honor, I will do my best not to disrespect you.”

Figuring he won’t get much more than that Siddgeir got up and extended his hand to Lysander. The Breton took it and got up. His face hurt a little but he knew that if Siddgeir really wanted him to suffer he would have punched him harder.

“What are you going to tell Ulfric when we get back?” asked Lysander calmly.

“That what you did was a distraction and were actually chasing Thalmor agents.”

“Sounds good enough. Thank you.”

Searching for Forsworn in the Reach was like searching for hay in a haystack. They were there, and they were many. So many, in fact, that he barely managed to harvest one when another one would show up.

They ended up with nearly 20 kgs worth of flesh by the end of the day and around five briar hearts. Lysander had refrained from harvesting human hearts. Siddgeir might have agreed to turn a blind eye but even the most ruthless of men hated the idea of someone using hearts in a potion.

By nightfall, they were both tired. They made camp by the river in a secluded place just beneath the road. For someone to find them they would need to look down and travelers hardly ever did that. Lysander started a fire and placed a cooking pot over it. He was in a good mood tonight and they had looted goat legs from the Forsworn early in the morning.

That was the good thing about Forsworn, they were well supplied. And were supplies and he probably should be disturbed at thinking about people this way but he wasn’t.

On his good days, he thought of people the same way the Thalmor thought of them. That didn’t speak well of him, he knew. And he was too similar to those he fought, which in turn made him a hypocrite. But no one could be perfect, even more so when one wasn’t even trying.

As he roasted the dinner he stared at Siddgeir. The man was inspecting his bow. Checking the strength of the string and humming to himself. The Jarl had been a great help today. People didn’t tend to pay attention to an archer lurking in the shadows when there was a mage firing fear at you.

The Briar's hearts had been especially hard to be collected. They were in the chests of the best fighters among the Forsworn. Lysander’s usual tactic was to cast Fear on them first and then activate the lamb effect on them. It had been a trick that he had to learn early on. After he had cast Muffle for the nth time. It just occurred to him he could Muffle his victim’s senses.

Make them see things that weren’t there or make them unable to feel anything at all, including pain. He honestly didn’t see why people thought that the school of Illusion was thought of as one big parlor trick.

The leg was just about ready when Lysander added the elve’s ears. Siddgeir had finished expecting his weapon while the Breton had been lost in his musings.

“Why do you do it?”

The question came without a warning and the Dragonborn raised his head and stared at the Jarl.

“Why do I do what?”

“Help people, kill people. Why do you do it all if you care so little for life in general?”

Lysander turned his head to the side.

“Why do you think I don’t care about life? I care a great deal. I care that there are hundreds of bards who were forced into servitude, just like I was. I also care about the people of Skyrim.”

Siddgeir studied Lysander’s face for a little while then his eyes returned to his bow.

“I saw you butcher the people of Skyrim the whole day. Do you call that care? Or are you going to say it was mercy you got to them first and traded their lives for these hundred of abducted bards?”

Lysander hmed a little and went to cut the goat meat into two generous portions. He walked to Siddgeir and passed him a plate. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that accusation. Siddgeir was right. He couldn’t say he cares for something he so easily discarded. And yet he had an excuse at the ready.

“The Forsworn behave like Falmer. They ambush caravans, kill innocent passerby's. Those they capture they use for their rituals. The lucky ones they indoctrinate into their little sect. But you have the right of it, I suppose I care only about certain people in Skyrim. Does that bother you that much, Siddgeir?”

The Jarl lowered his head and began to eat. So this was Lysander. He was nothing like the Dragonborn should be. He barely had morals. Had probably agreed to side with the Dragons even.

These brothers of his who he only harmed when they rebelled against Alduin. And that was a scary thought. Now that he had Lysander talking as honestly as he was able he had to know if this war they fought against the elves wasn’t just to weaken them so their winged allies could finish the Nords off and take over Skyrim.

“If…if you had to choose between the people of Skyrim you do care about and Alduin, who would you support?”

“You think my brothers will turn on you the second the elves are gone? They are waiting for something else entirely and Alduin doesn’t want to destroy this world. Besides by the time the Kalpa is over you will be long dead, Siddgeir. Don’t worry.”

Siddgeir gritted his teeth at that. Noticing that Lysander held up his hands to placate him.

“I meant you will be long dead from old age. Or maybe because of the elves. I wasn’t threatening you, calm yourself.”

“So there is nothing to be done? This world will be destroyed no matter what we do?”

Lysander looked slightly saddened at that.

“Perhaps. The Graybeards seem to believe that my killing Alduin will prevent the Kalpa from ending, but what if they are not correct. There was an adventurer who messed with Daedra once who is now Sheogorath. The Sheogorath of before is long gone. Some say that the adventurer killed him for driving him mad. If I kill Alduin there is a slight chance I might succeed him. I don’t want that.”

“How do you know that you will succeed him if you defeat him? And even if you do you can control your urges, the Kalpa wouldn’t have to end if you don’t wish it to!”

The Breton thought back on the conversation he had had with his brother on that rainy day in Helgen. There was no point in trying to extend the Kalpa by slaying Alduin. At least according to Alduin himself. The Dragon could be lying, true. But he doubted it.

His brother had been more honest with him than Lysander himself had been in recent years. Had shown him that he didn’t need to second guess his nature. He was a Dragon. Dragons stole. Dragons killed. Dragons hoarded what they liked, be it humans or jewels.

He briefly wondered if it was time to disillusion Siddgeir about himself. To tell him the cold truth just like his brother had told him it back then.

“The hunger will drive me insane. This isn’t the first world Alduin grew attached to. Nor the first one he is trying to spare. I already eat souls, animal ones and now because of the drug I have eaten human soul fragments. You don’t understand at all. I need to eat. I crave it. I went through my entire stash of soul gems during the little boot camp you and Ulfric put me through. If my hunger is such now just imagine what it would be like when I become the next Worldeater. Alduin has better self-control than me. Be happy that he is still kicking and don’t ask me to betray him ever again.”

Something changed in Siddgeir’s eyes then. Lysander could see the disappointment. It wasn’t fair really. He had been honest with the Jarl from the start. He was a traveling bard and a mercenary. Mercenaries either stopped caring or they ended up dead. The Nord in front of him should have known that better than most.

“So if the Kalpa ends sooner, during our lifetimes, you would just wait for Alduin to kill us all?”

There was disbelief in Siddgeir’s voice. As if he still clung to some misplaced hope that the man before him was indeed the legendary figure that was the Dragonborn and not someone who had given up.

“I don’t know, probably. There are millions of years more left in this Kalpa. If Alduin attacks now that would mean he will be going back on his word and I hate that.”

_“You will be there for Kalpa’s end.” A voice whispered in his ear. “Unless you do what Tiber Septim did and slit your own wrists. Then you will be my guest, forever.”_

Lysander shocks his head. Now was not the time for Vaermina to whisper in his ear. He needed to stay focused. The Daedra had been bothering him since that torture session all these months ago. While he trained, slept and when he just lay awake at night thinking about all his bad decisions.

She would remind him about everything. Assure him that he was bound to Oblivion, to become a champion for her brothers and sisters. That not even the end of the Kalpa will save his wretched soul from peril. And he knew. That was why he wondered if he was truly immortal at times. If he could really escape Oblivion by simply not dying.

He was afraid, simply terrified and it showed plainly on his face.

“You are scared. What could you possibly fear, Dragonborn?”

Ah, so now Siddgeir was getting formal with him. Trying to guild trip him into doing his supposed job. Well, it wasn’t going to work. Why should it? As long as Alduin was alive and well and unwilling to eat the world he could be free to do whatever he wanted.

He had gotten married, just like he wanted. And while his marriage was the poster child for all dysfunctional marriages, there was still an attraction between his handsome husband and him.

He was left alone to do his research, well at least he was until the whole Thalmor abduction thing had taken place. He was also allowed free reign of Skyrim. Again, it could have been better but his arrow in the knee was protective of him as of late.

But everything was going to be fine. He will go and purchase the biggest order of powdered mammoth’s tusk to date. Order some Cannis roots and heal the Thalmor agents. The war will be over, he would have ended elven slavery and life will just return to what it used to be.

“Everyone has something they fear. But it's none of your business, Jarl.”

After the gruff reply, the Nord looked down and then back to Lysander. There was something he needed to ask him. Something he desperately needed to know about the real Lysander that he had been sure of when he was faced with the legendary Dragonborn.

“You said before there are people in Skyrim you care about. Am I one of them?”

Lysander grew thoughtful at that. But the decision wasn’t a hard one. He still thought of the man as his lover, albeit he did remember to add the word formal least he ended up tried for treason and infidelity. Ulfric didn’t deserve it, but then Siddgeir hadn’t deserved it either.

“You are, now lets sleep. Ulfric will want to know why you chased me across half of Skyrim soon.”

It was good for Siddgeir to know that he was among the few who Lysander still cared about. With that thought and a quick “Good night”, he drifted off to sleep. And if he was smiling then that was nobody’s business but his own.


End file.
